


An Unraveling

by Kasan_Soulblade



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Authority both as malicious and benign, Gen, His initials are asp don't be surprised, Ministry of Magic, Ministry of Might, Post War, Slytherin Albus Severus Potter, Slytherin emphasis, Some profanity, post books
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-08 13:19:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 26,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kasan_Soulblade/pseuds/Kasan_Soulblade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A nineteen years later fanfic with some rather serious changes to the Deathly Hollows canon. Most who are dead stay dead, but what becomes of the world when it's heroes step down...</p><p>Time passes and the known world changes. Not all change is good and when the heroics are done, not all demons were vanquished. "Clearly," drawled a wry voice from it's prison of paint, "passing the burden's become the vogue of our kind. How Muggle."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a transference project, while I have ideas past the initial chapters I wrote on another site it's going to be a slow update piece as I find this fandom hard to write in despite it being one of my favorites. Thanks for your patience in advance. 
> 
> Kasan Soulblade

An Unraveling

 

A new Sort of Sorting

When happy unravels, all we have is an ending.

But unlike those story books that end "and they lived happily ever after" the ever after is fatally flawed and thus always falls apart. Unlike taught history where the pages run out with some happy go lucky phrase about how "and this is why the way the world is now" with a barely concealed "what a glorious age this is" jammed between the lines there is a bitter truth. One censored from the young, and at times, the old. The true historians (even poor Professor Bins who has nothing more than an eternity before him reciting the same facts) know this truth. History never ends, merely marches ahead to time's never ending tempo.

And, tragically, that drive leaves things behind.

Sometimes the trivial is lost, an emphasis to a word here, a person there.

Sometimes though, what's lost is… immeasurable.

Too vast to be replaced, too gaping to be patched by a memorial…

"Albus Severus Potter, come forth!"

No longer does Minevra usher the children forth. A man more bone than flesh with clip board in attendance calls the roll of "those who've yet to be sorted" his voice so dull, this ritual so trivial he yawns through it all, from start to finish. Hagrid's voice, though jovial in ushering the "firsties" forward is dimmed, at the shadows of the castle he is to turn back, and despite the thunder of a conflicted heart he does as he's done since the decree was first passed.

He obeys.

The colors of four are dimmed, the Phoenix little more than ashes swept under the rug, an Order taboo.

As for world order…

Ministry is as ministry does.

Hung before, symbols all but lost in tattered and frayed banners, the four look down, within the dust choked remains of their splendor. A hat, as battered as the banners is offered to each student as they step forward. The hat plopped upon the bewildered head (no explanations offered, nor are the honestly expected) the familiar dark, a whispered, undocumented conversation.

Savored later, for there's little left undocumented these days, but such is not the concern of mere children.

Expectant silence, then the pronouncement.

There are no cheers at each pronouncement, merely "civilized conduct" approved per the ministry. A subdued clapping really, a few smiles perhaps.

Never mind how those smiles are watery, the faces of the professor's strained.

"Hmmm, breaking tradition are we?" The hat murmurs. "Best of luck to you then… We'd best put you in... Slytherin!"

No applause this time, only shocked silence, than that bored voice with it's attendant drawl chimes in.

"The green table, Mr. Potter." A gesture of the board is made, just in case the boy is colorblind or something.

With a blush, the boy complies.

 


	2. Unconventual cages

An Unraveling

Unconventional cages

There were graphs of student progress (firsties were called Zeros simply due to the fact that they had no progress to begin with), and lists. Class lists, chore lists, lists of "ministry sanctioned activities" that were so detailed that there was a category for "talking". And, obscene as it might be, right under "talking" lay a subcategory to list with whom you spoke to and what about.

"Your pen will be your best friend here! Never be without it!" Cheered the headmaster, trying to fill the resounding silence with sheer gusto. And, perhaps, had it been a kinder quiet, he might have been able to. No one clapped, no one dared whisper. After all, this was a representative of the ministry of magic speaking. And to those who didn't know better, the worldly interceded. Kicking their less than knowledgeable brethren under the table to uphold order.

Oblivious to the spot of goblet hopping going on at every table (and one loud "ouch, jeeze!" from an unfortunate Weasley amongst the Gryffindors) as he was very year, the headmaster began to extol the virtue of the pen. And yes, while it was mightier than the sword and yes, the Ravenclaws loved pens, it went from informative to dull in moments.

After a few moments it passed from dull to depressing, and amongst the crush, those few with vision felt their hearts quicken. They shivered as they felt bars of parchment, locks of ink, steal about them and close a little tighter.

This madness wasn't run by Umbridge thank Merlin for small miracles, but a short squat man with greasy brown hair who could have been Fudge's brother.

Sadly, by next day after "orientation" Albus would know that headmaster Orwens wasn't Fudge's brother, but his cousin twice removed. Clearly diversifying the gene pool hadn't helped the looks any. Not that he was so bold to say it… but there were some seventh years…

No, not seventh years (or seventies per Ministry sanctioned terminology) but Vipers. Vipers were seventh years; sixth to third were called Snakes, second and first years Snakelings.

Such were the learning's hissed in the bedroom, between bunks from those with sibs who'd "been around" and those with none. Before patrol, from their starting circuit from the uppermost level to the lowest, the Headboy poked his head into each dorm. Between greetings and introductions looks were shared, hands were offered and shakes complete.

"Samuel Silverbane," the Headboy murmured. His school sanctioned badge glinting green and silver in the murky light of the dungeons. The boy was tall, lanky, his frame accented by the long robes that dripped from his long arms. Slytherin greens did not compliment his pasty skin and black ringed eyes. Still the older Slytherin tried a smile, pulling off a grimace by accident. That shaky quirk of the lips was more genuine than any smile Albus had seen since getting here.

Pulling the younger boy close, the Viper embraced the startled Snakeling.

Certainly this wasn't a move for publicity! Albus cringed at that thought, cringed at the weak grip… He could have squirmed and the hold would have broke… and (horrid thought) was that a palsy he felt about the other's arms? But the grip was there, than gone. An embrace which the boy used to hide how he leaned close, lips scarcely moving, he breathed into the younger man's mop of mess black hair. "House meeting, unofficial, midnight," than pulled away, but not before a meaningful look and a nod beyond Albus.

"Welcome to Slytherin, Mr. Potter." The boy noted in a droll tone that recalled tales of other Slytherin's, none of them welcome or safe to tell considering the company he kept.

Or the serpent badge over his heart.

"Th.. thank you…" Albus dropped his gaze, contemplated the grey stones at his feet.

"You'll find a home here, with us, never doubt." An arm crossed the distance between Viper and Snakeling, a twitching hand steeled over the younger's shoulder for a moment before breaking away with an effort that might have been a squeeze. That touch made Albus raise his head, meet those pale blue eyes one last time.

Only to find they weren't focused on him. They were looking about, counting heads and the like.

"Seven zeroes, four boys three girls." He voice was cool, forbidding, the difference between now and before made the young Potter flinch though the hand still lingered on him, and caused the others to wince (and one vocal Snake to hiss), as if in pain. Those watery eyes narrowed in warning. "Get points; serve the Slytherin name by making us look good, do this in your name, in the Ministry's, and you'll make us proud."

The clip of shoes, of boots upon stones, close but coming closer underscored the Viper's warning, made the grim glitter about those eyes something… more. The door opened with a creek, combine that with the algae tinged illumination and surely all the half bloods about were surely thinking of horror flicks seen upon the telly. A man in green robes with the ministry sigil stamped over (and nicely obscuring) Salazar's familiar serpent poked his stubby nose in. Suffice to say, shortly following his nose was a long face that seemed to ooze blubber from all its lines but was unable to fully blur the edges.

"Mr. Silverbane," The man offered, his voice so monotone surely he screamed in a single octave. "What is the meaning of this unauthorized gathering here?"

Snakelings looked to each other, than to adult intruder and to their nearly adult guild.

"Pre-Orientation preparation, sir!" The young man clicked his heels, "just getting the little zeros settled in for the night sir!"

"Very good, but as their head of house it's my duty to oversee this matter."

Yet despite saying so, the tall rounded man lingered in the door way. Clearly not intent to oversee anything save Samuel's departure.

Head of house? Outrage dovetailed with something bitter and sharp, something like despair. Snape in all his evil Death Eater glory would have been better than this walking bore! Albus could have groaned. Someone in the back surely did, and that incriminating sound turned into a grunt as someone a mite sharper than their peers stepped in. Literally.

"Pro… Professor?" One of the students forms the back queried. "You're our head of hou-"

"Professor?" The man snorted. It wasn't a pretty sound and had more than a ghost of an oink to it. "Hardly! I'm an Assistant Subdivision Manager to Human Resources Child Wizardry Division."

You could hear the capitals in the man's inflection. There were no groans now, only a spattering of bewildered looks as the boy's met each other's gazes then stared at their bored looking Head of House.

"Yes, mhmm impressed are we?" The man puffed out, an impressive feat in itself considering the girth that swaddled his frame. "Comport yourself properly gentlemen and you'll be as important as I am one day!"

From the back, came a hissed. "I wonder if my Great God Uncle Sev has any poison left in the old Potion's classroom…"

No foot came down to shut the discontented soul up, but the middle aged wizard, with this greasy blonde hair straggling into his ears, didn't hear. Pebbly brown eyes combed over the gathering of half blood and full blood wizards and nodded in approval.

"They look settled to me."

Watery eyes considered them as the Head Boy nodded. "Yes sir."

"You'll get your lists in the morning, and a never break quill in green." The Head of House yawned, clearly boring himself with his own voice. "That'll be all. Come along Mr. Silverbane, patrol waits for no one."

With a grunt Mr. Silverbane obliged.


	3. Ghost Hunting

An Unraveling

Ghost hunting

The girls sang a tune, snippets of songs, forgotten, forsaken, as they skipped up the winding stairwells. Their skirts under their robes flickering about their knees, the edges of their black robes were blue. A hem and centimeter was all that was given to them all to honor "tradition" that was "seriously outdated" per decree and popular opinion both.

The edges, those flickers of color, licked at the girls' ankles with each step, a ghost of the old, present amongst the living.

_Tucked in the corners, are things in the shelves, some once lived, some never tell._

_Ghosts and bogarts, and things we'll never know, slipped off the Coil, ages ago._

_Clippity clop, cloppity clip, Thestrals and Unicorns, and Centers ran off in a snit._

The color of their heeled shoes (Ministry sanctioned and tasteless to boot, a pale a blue as any he could imagine so close to white you had to squint to catch the hint of pigment) marked the girls as Ravenclaws. As did the edges, and the badges that seemed so small they were barely enough to cover the heart.

XXX

"Once, we were proud." Silverbane murmured, pacing amongst the stiff Snakelings as they'd grudgingly tucked themselves into the chairs that had been so obviously been left out for them. The Prefect had greeted them with the reptilian affectionate during their descent. Ignoring the wondering stares that had followed his salutation and the budding disbelief at his back he continued his speech, green robes billowing.

"To be a Slytherin was to be wiser than the wise, cannier than the brave and thus more successful. We were the epitome of all that was good of Salazar, and were in turn the worst."

About them, adorned with black robes, were shapes tucked into the common room's corners. Peers, brothers, sisters, none could tell, for none of the scattered drew close enough to be seen.

Not that sight was an easy thing.

From their trip down the winding stairway, as they'd traversed the coiled span in the gloom that divided one day from the other there had been no torches. The fool who'd dared utter a Lumos had been rebuked harshly, their wand taken. With the barest of smiles, Silverbane continued, confiscated wand in hand twirling idly.

"We were the pride of Salazar. Survival was necessary, and we were best at it, but now… now mere survival isn't enough. Now when living like _this_ turns us all into ghosts."

Blonde hair, grey eyes, pasty complexion were the significant features. That and a name. This boy who spoke, in a shaken whisper, had a name that a bare generation ago would have inspired terror.

Now, it only rose eyebrows, as he was one of the few amongst the gathering who was a learned full blood with parents who had a… questionable… history.

"What happened _to_ the ghosts… Da- _Father_ … mentioned that there were ghost here."

"They were tucked into the corner, unwanted, unneeded, and unsanctioned; just like… all the other things here that were magical." Silverbane murmured. "Just like the paintings, and the statues and… all of it. It wasn't this bad, not my first year; we had the ghosts for a little before Nearly Headless Nick said the wrong thing at the wrong time. Then… off they went. Banned and barred."

"But, in the castle?" Albus wondered.

"Maybe." The Prefect shrugged. "No one knows."

XXX

"Wandering around the halls, Potter?" Unfolding his arms, stepping away from the corner from where he'd slouched, that blonde boy with that damning name swaggered into the center of the hall, grey eyes a mystery. "Looking for ghosts?"

The younger Slytherin shrugged, though they were the same year a few months separated them and Albus was polite enough to acknowledge it. "Sorta. Maybe."

And that tell nothing look that'd been stamped on his face since day one, that arrogant sneer that was more habit than anything else fell off the boy's face. Swallowed up by a wary smile. "Spoken like a Slytherin. Scorpioius Malfoy."

A hand was extended.

"Albus Severus Potter." The younger conceded, a small grin rounding out the warmth of his green eyes.

"Al, wasn't it?" The smooth hand closed over the youngest Potter's. "Heard your brother call you that earlier. Boomed it across the bloody Hall at breakfast."

Breakfast was many an hour ago, lunch a fond memory, past dinner, before curfew, he'd spent his time hunting ghosts instead of studying. It wasn't his first night doing so, but he'd been at it less than a week. So far, no ghosts. But he'd found rhyming Ravenclaws and other silliness to fill the hours.

"So…" Grey eyes glittering, smile widening Malfoy just _had_ to know. "You find them yet?"

"Nope." Albus grinned.

"Want some help with your endeavor?" The older Slytherin offered; smile making a joke of the adult speech and calling adult things silly, among so many other things.

"Maybe." The Slytherin chuckled; seriously, Scorpios sounded so… _stupid_ talking like that. "Just don't call me "Al"."

"Fair enough, don't call me Malfoy and we've got a deal."

The hand was offered, and taken, neither knowing the boundaries they'd crossed, all accidentally.

"So, Sev, was it?" Scorpious drawled. "That's a good, proper Slytherin name. Our head of house was called that when he visited and all."

Eyes wide, something like wonder crossed his face. They weren't allowed to talk about the old heads of house, ever. Knowing he was breaking a rule, Scorpios' smile widened. A "what the heck I'll do it" sorta grin.

"Not _here_ you dunderhead, let's find someplace to hide, and I'll tell you all about him. Dad was his favorite you know!"

"Wicked!" Sev smiled. "Dad never tells me stories about _him_ , just Dumbledore and stuff."

With a flurry of green and black, the two Slytherins slipped off, keeping close, whispering short snippets of tales even as they searched for a better place to hide, so the full tales could be told in earnest.


	4. A Race of Sorts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Appologies if you saw cahpter 3 repeated twice. The computer had a small crash and I've remidied it as fast as I could.

An unraveling

 A race of sorts

A ghost a giant a werewolf and animal souled. Thus were the sins of Hogwarts own. Beast, half blood, brute, the newest unforgivable were right up there with the names they'd been forbidden to say.

Magic was dictated, not practiced, merely a theory that made Bin's lectures to an empty room seem exciting. They'd found their ghost, lonely and unresponsive, spouting nonsense about goblin wars.

To a broom closet.

"Wicked." Grey eyes wide, bright, Scorpio drew close, than more daring than most he reached out and brushed a hand against the still rambling specter. His fingers pressed against the edge of grey and into Bin's unsubstantial side. The ghost looked up at that, smoke hued eyes a mystery as he murmured.

"Mr. Malfoy, if you please refrain from playing with my ectoplasm-.

The dead professor never got to finish whatever it was he'd meant to say. Screaming both boys barreled out of there, slamming the door behind them for good measure.

"Eeeew ew ew ew! I touched it, I touched a ghost!" Malfoy squealed, sounding a bit like a girl. Having a baby sister, Albus was in the know about that but was nice enough to just grin and keep his thoughts to himself.

"Let me see!" The younger Slytherin begged. Snatching at the hand that had actually touched Bins. Malfoy, giggling all the while hopped back, hand firmly pressed against his back head shaking wildly left to right.

"Come on! What's ectoplasm look like? Is your hand all grey and slimy?" Albus pressed, half asking half whining.

Well, more than half whining, Albus realized belatedly. Malfoy sniffed, stuck his nose in the air and pretended to be a prat. For all of ten seconds he held up the act.

A smile, a wink, and then Scorpius thrust out the hand he'd been hiding.

It was Albus' turn to squeal then, hop back and stare aghast at a hand that was unslimed, ungrey, and all too normal.

"That was mean!" Albus whined fully now.

"Says the chicken who wouldn't touch Bins back there." Scorpius sneered.

"You know what M- Scorpius, shut it!" Albus huffed.

Eyes alight with _something_ , that smothered the smugness and left the blonde's smile close to sweet, surely genuine, the Slytherin slugged his housemate on the shoulder. Lightly. So not to cause a bruise but to make a point.

"Whatever you say _Alb_ y."

Sometimes, Albus Severus Potter groaned, he really wished Father hadn't named him for a Slytherin _and_ a Gryffindor. Because between being called Sev, Sevy (by the Slytherins), Al, and Alby (by the Gryffindors), he was starting to forget what his real name sounded like.

"You said you weren't going to call me Al!" Albus huffed.

"I didn't." Scorpius smirked. "I called you Alby."

"Oh shut up." Albus Potter growled, with a lighter shove than the last he nudged his housemate forward. Before them, nearing, were the stairs that lead down to the dungeons. The steep incline was close enough to make real rough housing from the realm of amusing to downright stupid.

And being a Slytherin, unlike say a Gryffindor, meant he was more or less equipped to avoid stupid and stupid stunts.

"So, one ghost down." Malfoy grinned, rubbing his arm, smile widening. "How many to go?"

"Dunno." The younger Slytherin raked a hand through his black hair, absently moving his black rimmed glasses about. "But I bet I know who knows…"

"Who?"

Snatching Malfoy's sleeve Albus didn't explain, simply lead the way. Away and up, few crisp steps and they were leaving the stairwell and the path to Slytherin behind.

"Wait a second, what about curf-"

"A Malfoy, a good guy? Caring about rules? I musta grabbed a Weasely by mistak-."

"I'm no Weasel!" The blonde snarled. "I… Just… Well… Who cares about curfew!" The boy huffed, trying and failing to sound all unruffled like his father. Dragged a few more steps, he finally warmed to the idea, and his quickening steps made Albus loose his hold.

Soon they were nearly running, never truly because that was against the rules, but they skirted around the edges of a good dash by the thinnest of margins. Their robes billowed, the green about the rumpled edges flickered like snake skin as they paced under torches and quit those for shadows. Rounding a bend, going up, back to a specific broom closet no less, Malfoy slowed, just a few steps, but it was enough to make Albus look back.

"You think it's true, that they got a Squib here, with an evil cat, and that he hangs students by their nails?"

To that Albus frowned, thought a bit, then slowed, and at last stopped.

"Well… I dunno, but if they do, we could…" Slytherin cunning left the younger of the boys, then it came back and he smiled, inspired by his _brother_ of all things. "I dunno… blame a Gryfindor?"

"Silverbane would like that!" Scorpius smiled, snickered after a tick. "It's a beautifully Slytherin plot, gathering information and blaming the Gryfindors when we get caught! Maybe we can get house points if we pull it off!" All but humming with pleasure, the blond snakeling bounced in place. "Come on, I'll race you to Bins then beat you at getting caught!"

Grinning wide, Albus had to laugh. Just had to. "You're on!"

The race was on.

 


	5. 220

An Unraveling

Chapter 5

220 were forgotten

One detention latter, a shoddily composed excuse about Gryffindors, and what had once been a detention for one night extended into two. Another list was discovered for both boys, disciplinarian actions, and both got two entries, one for being out past curfew, and another for lying.

Their head of house, (A Mr. Callow, introductions were only tendered after they'd gotten in trouble, and didn't that tell all) scolded them roundly. The man went so far as to waking up the disgraced boy's slumbering housemates and dragging all and one into the common room to see the two get their comeuppance.

Scorpius, who'd never heard a raised voice in his life broke first… Head bowed, tears slipped past his pale silvery eyes. He'd raised a hand, to better hide his shame, Pro- no… Mr. Callow ripped it down.

"You're in the wrong, face your shame boy!"

Boy… not Malfoy, not Scorpius.

Albus, who'd heard and seen more than his sheltered housemate lasted longer but, that last undid him. He cringed, and like the serpent whose house he ruled, Mr. Callow turned on the motion of weakness. For such a fat, insignificant man, the head of house's voice carried far too well. Surely they heard his ranting up in Ravenclaw.

"Did you think this... this stunt… this blatant disregard for protocol would earn you merit?"

"We... We were only late by ten min-" Albus growled, blinking back the burning behind his eyes.

"Protocol is protocol."

"You don't even ask why-"

"You aren't exempt from the rul-"

"We got lost!" Albus howled patience and honesty breaking turn by turn.

"Enough!" Shoving the child before him, Callow's fat face both flushed and quivered. Staggering back under the force of the blow Albus fell as his foot caught the silver and green rug in the common room's center. With an unrepentant snort Callow looked down at his sprawled Zero. "Never, never in my years of teaching has _any_ Zero had the gall to talk back. Twenty points from… form my house!"

Ringed round, black robed forms unmoving the rest of the house had seemed content to watch, to stare at the drama…. Until that moment. Stepping from the mass, distinguishing himself from the crush, the seventh year pulled up his downed Snakeling. Albus leaned into the weary boy's embrace. Never had an arm over his shoulder been so comforting. He felt safe. Insane as it might seem, surrounded by serpents, in the hearts of a serpent's den… Albus felt safe.

His eyes pricked, even as a shaking hand ruffled his hair, and that familiar voice wryly told him to "buck up, damn it, you aren't turning 'Puff on me, are you?".

Besides him, a sixth year girl was offering Scorpius a handkerchief, with a sniffle and a weak grin the blonde accepted.

A snort, perhaps a snicker, and Callow was moving on. His moment of… _whatever_ gone now. The circle about him parted and closed, blocking the bulky man's view of his chastised students.

More focused on getting gone, the man idly threw the words over his shoulder as he departed.

"Detention, every week day until it's done, you'll be cleaning the third floor, top to bottom till it shines. House meeting dismissed."

Looking up from his soothing words, the Seventh year speared his elder with watery blue eyes, something like steel amongst the glimmer most would consider weak.

"From _Slytherin_. You took points from Slytherin, _not_ your house."

Callow stopped, stopped storming, stopped breathing, his back to them all, his frame edged by those few before him. Those in the unenviable spot of in front of the irate Head of House looked beyond him, like he wasn't there.

"Mr. Silverbane, your insistence on using the house name alludes to a kind of loyalty that is both dated and forbidden by protocol. As your Head of House I advise you to pick your battles. You _won't_ win this one."

"Fine." Silverbane shrugged, smiling a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Fool that he was Callow never turned, never saw it. "As Prefect I give there two S-" nearly damning himself he swallowed, tried again, "-Zeros… twenty points apiece, for displaying rudimental cunning, a virtue of _my_ house."

The man's back stiffened, he rolled his shoulders, but never looked back.

"A hundred points, Mr. Silverbane, for displaying the most pathetic aspect of this house, one that should have been forsaken long ago. A hundred more to any who help these two… trouble makers…"

With that he stormed off, slamming the door behind him. Malfoy flinched but would never admit it. Besides him Albus rubbed his aching shoulder, Callow had pushed hard.

And a jerk that hurt… well anyone, just didn't deserve to be called Mr. regardless of rank, seniority, or well… whatever the Ministry gauged the man by. Any other gauge would be worthless, considering the man's fixation of "protocol" it was something that didn't need to be said.

Neverminding the consequences, the dark haired Slytherin girl who'd been "helping" Malfoy offered another handkerchief, one the boy took up with a grateful smile and a charm reminiscent of his father.

"Holding up alright there Potter?"

Albus stilled his rubbing, grimaced. "What… what was he yapping about, the whole "worse virtue" junk."

Silverbane shrugged. "House unity. Drives the Ministry batty. They wanna introduce a new house… Unsorted or some junk… Prime picks for the ministry without all those morals, compassion and house traits mucking up matters... It's on the board and meant to be approved by Christmas, at least that's what I heard."

" _What_?"

Growls of discontent wended about the Slytherin room. Above, in the great hall, grey and gritty from neglect and time turn by turn and hourglass stirred, forty green pebbles fell, the first "points" awarded to a house in almost twenty years.

As for the two hundred and twenty points deduced, most curiously they were forgotten.

 


	6. The Edges Cut Away

An Unraveling

 

The Edges cut away

 

_Dear Mother,_

_How are you? As I'm sure James has told you I was sorted last week. I… I hope you aren't disappointed… and I love you even if you are…._

The third floor had been abandoned. Let to seed, though what seeds had to do with castles and cobwebs and dust bunnies so fierce they seemed like dragons had to do with seeds was a mystery. White crackly stiff littered the floor, red eyes gleamed in the corners, the pest and vermin repellant charms had been left alone so long the pests of all the other floors had moved in, made merry, lived, and tucked in the corners was truth that not too few had died. The smell was… indescribable.

Scorpius went green, then a sorta fleshy grey, and then bent over double to reacquaint himself with the contents of his dinner. The floor, littered with all that it was, hardly noticed. Eyes up, starting at the thick screens of white and grey that clogged the walls and hung in the center of the long abandoned halls, Albus didn't notice.

Couldn't notice.

"If we spent every day up here until we died, we'd never get this place cleaned!" The young Slytherin howled in outrage.

The walls, the halls, caught his voice and sent it back, a shivering echo that made the spider's opus on high shiver like ghosts that weren't.

Wiping his mouth, wincing all the while, Scorpius groaned. "Th... I think that's what they want…" The Older boy moaned, clutched his stomach. "I just wanna go, I don't wanna be here."

Trying not to breathe, Albus nodded, they didn't want to say, they wouldn't. Weren't they Slytherins, above the rules? They'd act like Slytherins than, and get out of this.

Because the alternative… it wasn't pretty. They'd be lost amongst all this… decaying debris, never to be found again.

That image, more than anything else drove Albus on. Gripping the pureblood's arm, he lead the older boy back from where they came, retracing those absent steps staggered in shock.

"Come on Scorp, let's go then."

The door was wood and thick, dusty as hell. It was locked, not by key or bolt, but magic. Grimacing against the crackling floor, trying not to look too close least he get sick too, Albus fumbled out his wand from his pant pocket.

"Alahora, right? To open a door it's Alamohoral?"

"A…" Scorpius couldn't say the words couldn't warn, couldn't correct. He looked like he was going to get sick again, sicker maybe. "Ah… ung…"

"It's alright, thanks anyway I'll…" Oh God, he was going to have to breathe now! Albus did it quick, tried not to taste, and nearly puked anyway. "Here we go! Almahoralan!"

A flick of the wrist and he was thrown backwards as ward and badly worded opening spell, his, conflict, and the excess energy simultaneously knocked him on his back and slid him a few feet through… all of that…

He was sick then, unable to get up, he got sick realizing where he was and in what. Shaking amongst the… stuff… he couldn't get up. Not then, not for anything.

Not for the longest while.

… _I got in trouble recently, broke curfew and sassed the teacher. I got detention for tweo weeks, every day for two weeks… cleaning…_

Albus' hand went still, as he waited as he'd waited five times before this. Leaning close, a broad shadow obscured the pages as the owner of said shadow read over his shoulder.

"Cleaning cauldrons," Callow's voice hissed in his ear, reading done for the moment. "Mr. Potter, you were cleaning cauldrons… I'm sure… your _parent_ s… will find much irony in that comment."

Albus didn't nod, or protest, or do much of anything. He knew better than that, the back of his head ached from where he'd last dared nod and had been struck in response.

Ignoring the ink blot, Albus lowered his head and carried on.

_Cleaning cauldrons… it's hard work… But… I'm happy here, in Slytherin. Even though you and Uncle Ron must be awfully disappointed, considering you were Gryfindors and everything. My housemates are really nice, showing me about and my classes…_

Finally Malfoy pulled himself together, staggered to his housemate, and never mind the gunk and the mess. He reached down and pulled Albus to his feet.

And never mind his supposed maturity, he was an eleven year old boy locked in a place both tight and vast. the utterly darkness of the place lending to its contradiction.

"I... I wanna go home…" Albus sniffled. "I… They'll keep us up here forever, won't they?"

"I don't know." Malfoy looked about with wide, watering eyes. "Come on… let's just… walk about. Gotta be a … a decent place about here, somewhere."

So they walked and wandered for an hour, one became two, two blurred into three…

_Classes are fine_

Anything but, truth be told, but truth wasn't told, not here.

_I hope all is well,_

_Your son,_

_Albus Severus Potter._

With a nod, Callow snatched up the completed letter, skimmed it a final time, and nodded. His fat fingers smeared the ink as he read.

"Borderline illegible, but that's not my problem." A pause, the paper's edge tapped against the table as Albus' tormentor considered… something. Then softly, almost gently, he wondered. "You didn't send your love."

Five hours in that nightmare without waking. Five hours and a weary Silverbane had fetched him, stuttering apologies and the like for not figuring out the damned unlocking spell sooner. Albus felt hollow, wretched, and denied the chance to clean himself he looked it.

"I didn't feel up to it… sir."

"Not up to sending your mother your love?" Callow sneered.

Cracking a small smile, Albus studied the blank table before him, knowing better than to look up, but wondering… curiosity stirred to it's utmost… about how the sneer looked. It sounded shallow, pathetic really compared too. Compared too… Best not think the name, best forget the smile, store it for another day.

It didn't fit here.

 _He_ didn't fit here.

None of them did, not really. The comforting edges, those familiar lines, were cut away, wrapped in the gauze called decree, and left to rot as the wound's had never been treated.

"I love her sir, even if I didn't say it." Albus whispered, flinching back form the pain this defiance might cause.

Nothing came, only silence, then… "You didn't say it, and despite what the poets say, some things need to be said, repeated, drilled in." A breathe, a pause almost fearful. "You... didn't write your father."

"He doesn't answer his mail." Albus answered truthfully.


	7. What they found there part 1

Unraveling

What they found there… part one

"You're a Slytherin?"

You have any doubt?"

With a wry quirk of his lips, Scorpius had to admit that was no 'Puff's answer to anything. Too much snark for those syllables to come from any Badger, no matter how bold. No Griffindork would say those (damning) words, not with any aplomb anyway, not even for a prank. So, to the truth so wryly offered, Scorp smiled, or rather he tried.

The taste of his sickness was enough to make something so easy into a damned trial. Black eyes looked at him, then away. That pale, long, face turned first left, than right, black hair swishing silently at the violence of his turns. His eyes narrowed into a familiar scowl (such familiarity was proven as the lines and edges of his face darkened, conforming to the pressures of his expression without any extensive crinkling or silly trasitionary expression between waking and irritation) he perused cobwebs and corners, gleaming mysteries from such insignificant things about him before considering the pallid Slytherin before him again.

"My my… how things have changed…"

The sarcasm suited him, right down to the ground. From grime to grit, to dinge student, and back again, his gaze roved, and his lips pressed into a thin little line. His long beakish nose wrinkled, as if he were quite content that he couldn't smell.

Being bound by dimensions of shade, and color, and bright pigment, he seemed a lucky one.

Save… that there was nothing bright about the man. Except that glimmer, as some unseen light source caught the edge of his eyes and made them gleam.

His whole manner seemed like a man suddenly woken, rudely awoken, only awaiting the right moment to mutter "what the hell" before the whole world would give him an answer. And before those sharp eyes, and that roving glare, nothing else would be satisfactory.

"You're a.. ack choo!" Malfoy at least had tried to talk again.

"No, I'm not." Came the (how could it be any other way after all) snarky rejoinder. "My mother wasn't that cruel in my naming."

To that bit of wit the heir flushed. He looked down, abashed and then went pale at the sight. There were after all many things not meant to be seen, the aftermath of Unspeakables, dead things, rotting things… And a decade dead old mouse half wrapped about your ankle that you all but latched to said ankle by making a halfhearted move to scuff your foot against the ground never mind what coated said ground….

"Oh stop carrying on-" So spoke the master of sympathy.

" _Get if off get it off dear Merlin get off of me you…!"_

A sigh. "You've surly seen more disgusting things in a Potions Class, despite being an over coddled snakling…"

The squealing went up a notch, Scorpius didn't hear, and the other boy, uncommented upon, but there, couldn't help but glare. Scorpius needed help and this painting didn't care. Stepping out form his place of his accidental hiding place, just left of the edge of the portrait's frame, a blind spot for the two dimensional he'd soon learn as said painting gapped at him in shock, Albus Potter managed to get his friend calmed. After a well meaning tackle, a tussle, and a rather rude yank got the dead mouse off of Scorpius.

After all, talking wouldn't have helped a bit.

"Ick, I'm _lying_ in it now!"

"That's what showers are for." Albus drawled, pulling his friend up after him.

"I know I know it's just… yuck!"

While the drama played on, the man in his world of limited dimension stared at the two children. His painted features gobsmacked, but quickly, soundlessly, smoothing into a state of tranquility. Forced, surly, but it was a kind of calm. And like all calms, it broke.

"Mr. _Potter_ , it's been a while."

Whipping about, Albus gapped. "You _know_ me?"


	8. What they found there part 2

An Unraveling

Chapter 8

What they found, part 2

"We don't sir… we don't see much these days."

Black eyes akin to a pit flicked upon him… Those that had been so intent not to see him before or so it had seemed and for one moment Albus wished that that weren't the case. That he didn't exist before that gaze that pulled him down and apart all at once.

"A Potter…" Dark eyes soaked in the familiar colors of green and silver lining, lingered over the serpent badge, then looked up and that ineffable sense of being dissected by glare alone returned. "A Potter in Slytherin… I'd say who would have thought I'd live to see the day-"

He left it hanging, that grim, macabre painting.

"But you're dead." Albus finished.

"Perhaps," the painting drawled, its subject sarcasm incarnate, "that is but one of the pleasant little lies you tell yourself to better sleep at night."

"You aren't dead?" Albus challenged, at his side Scorpius snickered, then shook his head.,

"If he isn't," the blonde pointed out. "he's gunna be twice as lively later."

A snort and raised eyebrow was all the canvas Slythern… whoever… had to say to that.

"Half as lively's lively enough for me." Albus confessed with a grimace.

He grimaced, you see… for those eyes were back, riveted on him. Had they just widened, perhaps narrowed with distaste, he wasn't sure. His lumos flickered and the dark came, obscuring emotions for a moment before it was forced back by Scorpios' better cast lumos. All expression was carefully tucked away after light's fall. The nameless Slytherin bound to his wall, caged by the lines of his frame and he edges of parchment, tapped one digit against his lips.

Soundlessly soft, the motion left no dent upon the skin, no ripple, despite its crisp pace.

At last, stained and slender, the man's finger pressed against the line that marked his lips. He trace the lines of his own mouth (but wasn't he all lines, lines and color reborn of someone's misplaced fondness and a spell that would never let him go?) sealing secrets along the way.

"An explanation is due, I believe for so many things."

Ever a Slytherin Scorpius countered. "Something for something, I don't do anything for nothing."

"That sounds recited Mr.?"

"Scorpius Malfoy. And father says it plenty, he means it too." The boy huffed.

"I imagine so." That almost smile appeared again, breaking the placid stillness of no-tell quite nicely.

Reading between the lines Albus snorted, arms crossed over his chest while he was at it. "If that's your idea of _something_ I quit."

The painted man chuckled, even as the blonde boy realized… He'd given and gotten nothing at first pass. That jaw gap wasn't attractive on the older boy, granted nothing in this part of the castle was so it fit in… but still… Albus felt a little bad, just a little.

A click of the mouth closing and a loud "Hey!" was about as far as Malfoy got in protest wise.

To that the painted man's chuckle went up a notch, not to a laugh but oit was very close and certainly continuous. "For.. For fear of sounding a Badger, I'll concede that that was harld a fiar exchange, but as I'm ever a Serpent I will only consol you with this. Life itns't always."

"Always what?" Malfoy grumbled.

"Fair." Albus finished again. "c'ept _never's_ closer to truth."

"Now. Come now Snakeling… Not _never_." Drawled the painting. "There is such a thing as poetic justice, shame it scarcely lives beyond the bounds of a Ravenclaw's fancy."

"Books you mean?" Malfoy wondered.

"Perhaps."

To that the heir heaved a sigh. "Are you always like this?"

The answering "perhaps" wasn't too much of a surprise at this point.

"Merlin's knotted knickers." Scorpius groused. "Of all the things to find we find a smart arsed…"

"Something for something?" Albus queried, stepping forward and not so accidently on Malfoy's foot in the bargain. To that the thunderous expression on the painting's face eased to an almost smile once again. Tipping is long nose just so, the man's expression which was once a murderous snarl softened into a rather impressive sneer.

It was nearly art…

At least until you considered that the man was a painting. And the painting was holding to such a sneer so viciously. So vividly, that you could nix the nearly.

Wisely Albus kept all his thoughts on that tangent strictly internal.

"I'll…" Courage draining under the fearsome glower leveled his way, the boy shuddered. "I'll tell you who I am, you tell me who you were.

The man's fac stilled, even the sneer and all it's antagonism fell away. But those black eyes… they glittered with a fiercem feril light. Each Sylable was drawn out, enunchiated and gifted about as much expression as his face.

Which was none at all.

That's how the painting had…

"Agreed."

"My.. my name is Albus Severus-" Did those eyes widen? A fraction maybe, but the next moment died between them and between one syllable and the next Albus started to doubt it. "-Potter, I'm a first year Slytherin… umm a Snakling I think that's what Silverbane called it?"

The last was directed to Malfoy, who nodded.

But it wasn't Malfoy who really answered.

"Likely," Coached in boredom's tones the man continued. "Silverbane is your head of house, perhaps?"

Seeing what it was, something for nothing, Albus held to his silence. To that the man glowered, snarled, and when Albus crossed is arms over his chest the hostility faded into a real grin. Yellow teeth were bared from the gesture, uneven but surly sharp. "What a cunning little Snakling you are," Was that condescension? Probably. It was hard to place tone in the toneless (and never mind octave and silken pur there was only a ghost of inflection to the words to give away intent), mixing warning with praise them man carried on, utterly Slytherin. "We had a deal did we not ? For now, because it behooves me, I'll oblige you, this once."

Set against the black stone walls, the painting was much matched to the wall at his back. So much so you'd think him down a hall a ways when set against real wall. A few steps and he'd be with you, that illusion was broken only grudgingly by the frames about him. Frames that boxed in true wall, unpainted, unmarked, save by time's dust and filth's passing. To spite his state (he wasn't, you see, wasn't living, wasn't real, just magic and fibers and colors and all that) the man drew near, never quite touching the world, but near enough you had to see him.

Just had to.

Looming and black, black hair, black eyes, black robes, black was all you could see. This man who wasn't took to the center of attention if not the room itself. Filth and squalor faded to its true insignificance as it took center stage without tuely taking a step.

"I am a Slytherin, called Slytherin's Slytherin when I lived." Indulgence to childish whim became bitter for this man, the bared teeth twisted into a feral snarl, the metamorphosis was gifted by inflections return. "A Prince who is not…"

Before Albus could gift _his_ thoughts with its own inflection (he felt a wine on the tip of his tongue, the evasion wasn't fair after all) there came a click. An audible click as realization hit, a jaw unhinged, and said revelation made it's victim stagger. The sounds weren't comic exaggeration of expression, rather that of boots accidentally brushing up against some forgotten bone at an inopportune time.

Still the timing was, one hindsight, rather funny.

"Merlin merlinmerlinmerlinmerlin…" The blonde breathlessly chanted in a asphyxiated squeal.

Suffice to say it wasn't only Albus' black eyebrow that rose at the sight of the youngest Malfoy… fangirling…

"Don't you know who he is?" Said Malfoy squealed.

Calws… er hurm… fingers sank into Albus' arm. The younger was soundly shaken by his friend as the boy carried on in a near wheeze. Evidence had been offered to that keen mind, said mind's connections were at best flawed by excitement, but the explanations of how he'd gotten from point d to point c were going to come along. Eventually, Albus was sure.

"Prince… gasp… not… Sly's… Slytherin…"

Someday, perhaps, a hope.

"You…you're not making …any se… sense…" Albus chattered. Really, that shaking was getting really really annoying. He wished then he knew a good hex. Heck, he wished he knew _any_ hex. Or he'd trade a hex for feeling in his wand arm so he could try something… anything. Still, he had a headache coming on, and Mr. Evasive was watching the free show leaning against one "wall" of his frame, clearly amused.

Albus was tempted to mouth "help me" or maybe "save me" but he was more than confident that help would never come.

Ever.

At least that's what that smirk promised.

Above and back always a chant ended, a door banged open and like a shot Malfoy let go, whirled and raced away.

Singing of all things.

"Silverbane… Silverbane…"

Clearly the doubts that they wouldn't have been saved were superficial to the heir's mind. It might have been Albus' imagination... But he could have sworn the painted man sighed and said something about Hufflepuff under his breath.

"Guess who _I_ found?"

"Merlin's bloody balls, he's a damned Hufflepuff."

No muttering that time, Albus grinned his agreement.

"I won't tell if you don't."

The man's eyebrow rose, only that.

There was a quiet murmur; Silverbane's response was left to the imagination.

Malfoy's was not.

" _Salazar Slytherin_! Well his painting, but I found him! Isn't that great!"

"Salazar?" Albus groaned, maybe Malfoy wasn't as brilliant as he'd thought.

"It…" The man seemed to be struggling not to fall over, still the moment passed and he was as tranquil as ever. "One name is as good as any other… I suppose."

 _Liar_.

Self preservation, a Slytherin's lifeblood, was all that kept Albus from saying that last thought aloud.


	9. What they found there part 3

An Unraveling

Chapter 9

What they found part 3

"Mr. Silverbane I presume?"

Losing his grim from the bouncy Malfoy the addressed Viper lifted is gaze and gapped. Finding the speaker wasn't a trial, he was the only frame that held a subject besides stone after all. Black met blue, the analogy of bruises wasn't far from Albus' mind, and was brought to the fore by Silverbane's follow up flinch.

"S.. Salazar's ghost…" The seventh year croaked at last.

"Painting." Malfoy corrected, preening with pride.

"Maybe." Ablus countered, Scorpius never heard. Nor did he see Silvberbane's shudder. Having seen both flinch and shudder the Snakeling bit his lip and looked away.

"You're just jealous." Malfoy hissed, finding enough discretion despite his giddiness to at least lower his voice.

Albus didn't respond.

Ignoring them, "Salazar" spoke to the Prefect and no other.

"Gather all of the trustworthy for a house meeting, ten after midnight." Black eyes flicked to the children, one who was restrained and the other who was steadied by those shaky hands. "Vipers and Snakes only." The painting added.

Realizing that they were going to be excluded Malfoy did what any spoiled eleven year old would have done. Yammered for attention.

"Hey!" The heir whined; black eyes narrowed in warning but that warning wasn't heeded. "What about us?"

Narrow became glower, and Albus shivered, glad he wasn't the one getting the glare right now.

"Yes…" No hiss required, heir lost all pout and backed up a step, eyes wide in realized fear. "Yes... we mustn't forget about you two. Evading detention, inclined to explore… Such Gryfindor biased audacity should be… _rewarded_ …"

Had the Prefect not been in the way Albus would have kicked Malfoy. Stupid prat. Now things were even worse.

Then the painting smiled more a grimace really, but the lips turned up. The black eyes that he was sure had been centered on Malfoy canted to the side… It was then Albus realized it had been _him_ being stared at, by the dead man in the canvas. The ache between his eyes told the younger Slytherin it was more than a look that had been tossed his way.

A spell, some hex.

And a smile, Albus Potter winced, he really didn't like that yellow tooth smile.

"B..But… we're already _in_ detention!" Malfoy whined, rubbing his head, or so Albus thought. Maybe he thought it because that what he wanted to do. Face twisted into a grimace, Albus finally admitted that it was kind of hard to see through Silverbane and whatever Malfoy did beyond the Prefect was Malfoy's business.

But he really wished the other boy would shut up about then.

"And have you tended your obligatory task during your detention, or did you go off on a lark?"

"'ell…" Malfoy nipped his lip, shuffled just so. At last he shuffled, Albus could hear that. "We were _supposed_ to clean…"

"Without a bucket and brush, you traipse down here into the castle's vilest corridors, intent to _clean_ was it? Without tools? You expect me to believe-"

"We weren't given any."

Black eyes flicked to him, pinned him. No sneaky sideways stares that left headaches behind needed this time. The man stiffened, lips pealed back into a soundless snarl that didn't remain soundless at all.

"Oh really, Potter, they weren't _lost_ , per se?" He leaned close, surely the canvas strained from the force of containing that much malice.

Meeting those eyes, awful, black pits, Albus wanted to rub his head, look away, but he didn't. "No… sir…"

"Professor." And though nothing else was said, words were shared. Silverbane stepped forward. The set of his shoulders, the stiff to his back said _enough_ loud and clear.

A nod, and the dead Slytherin backed down, the whisper of his robes rustling was lost under the creaking of his wooden frame. A step, two, three, the man stilled in his prison without end, turned, and was facing the living once more. Dead face deathly still, he waited, arms crossed over his chest.

To the expectant silence the Prefect folded.

"They've been locked up here for hours. They were missing, not some stupid tools." Silverbane snarled.

An eyebrow rose, wonder conveyed at this lukewarm defiance fueled by legitimate hatred. Whether that hatred was for the painting and its subject or another was left to the imagination. Still, "Salazar" waited. An edge acquired to his stillness, an impatience and disappointment that was only seen by those brave enough to dare his black eyes.

"I…I didn't know they were gone, not till supper." A breath, a grimace, still the Prefect didn't look away. "It's been… five hours…."

To the whispered last "Salazar" reared back and away. He didn't leap into some other frame in flight like the idea suggests. Rather, he pulled back in shock. Then the shakes came, not cowardly trembling, but the shivers the very earth let loose before magma rushed forth.

"Five hours!" Malfoy yelped. "That's why it felt like forev-"

Albus wanted to punch Malfoy, he really did, like nothing else before. If only Silvberbane would get out of the wa-

" _What?"_

Well that shut Malfoy up. The older boy went quiet after a squeak. Albus looked over his shoulder, and stupid as it was he took comfort that he could get to the door quicker than quick. Quicker than some painting. Surely. Hopefully.

So he prayed.

Boots thudded, thundered as the painting and its occupant paced back and forth, each turn seethed with the ripples of those voluminous robes, ending in a whip like snap of the came following through with an abrupt about face.

One eternity passed, another, none of the living dared breathe. All watched transfixed at the furious pacing of the stone faced man. Save the stone had shattered.

And the magma underneath was hellishly hot.

Surely the canvas smoked and the devil himself cringed, against hate like that.

"And…" Throat trembling (what little they could see of it, amongst the stiff white collar) as the man swallowed words best left unspoken. "What did you head of house have to say about this _development_."

"Had… had a laugh of it sir." Silverbane shook, though mercy of mercies those pit eyes were looking to the side, not staring at them. Some vista beyond those in the third dimension held the painting's attention, the shaking had stopped, but none were stupid enough to take comfort from the obvious signs of a cool down.

For the signs were too obvious.

The profile, though permitting a more limited view of the hateful man, did nothing to dilute the palpable rage pouring from the lines. Lines of paint, planes of color, that made up a man dead long ago.

"A laugh of it, did he?" The tone was devoid of all inflection.

"Yes... sir… In the lounge. It's…" Taking a breath, Silverbane tried again. "When any of the Snakelings go missing, it's where I check first." Silence, then with a whimper in attendance, Silverbane concluded. "It.. This… It was with his blessing, the punishment."

The following silence was thick with thought. Of trust broken in children's mind (the sound of that ineffable, inaudible to all save the best trained. For that there were small blessings even in so drab and broken a world as this) resounded most loudly to the two oldest. To the youngest themselves, the quiet was impressive, oppressive, and they wanted it over and out. None of them dared say such, though.

"House meeting. Snakes and Vipers, all who are trustworthy. Ten minutes after twelve. Here."

He almost smiled, might have if things weren't so vile. Even though dead, he was as charming and eloquent as ever.

 _She'd_ of said that.

The owner of her eyes this time around said nothing. Only looked up at him expression violate and morphing by turns of his heart, pained, worried, scared... scarred. He'd look into the last later, for it was there and no trick of his imagination. There were scars in the green; he'd meet them at the source this time.

As he hadn't been able to last time… due to… _complications_.

"My Lord." Silverbane bowed. And to that the painting was pulled away from those visas that those crowded around his frame would never have seen. Could never have seen.

Transfixed by silver, by illumination that did not illuminate. The light was as delicate and wispy as a patronus, as lively as clichéd quicksilver, and never mind if he was dead.

It was as beautiful as it was binding.

Snaking through the final lines and edges of his painted world, it lived under the frame, along the final lines of "his place" this pseudo hallway that stretched on and on and never seemed to end. There were no doors along the edges. No routes to elsewhere. Only silver lined walls beyond foreground and though obscured by the ultimate gloom that congested the background they were there.

Always.

Lazy slob, silently the painting fumed within his confines. Couldn't even have bothered to paint him stool, a chair, to sit upon. Never mind a desk to lurk behind, or a lab to keep him busy. Here, now, in this when beyond his life… there was precious little to do save to be stared at by children.

Little wonder others of his… place… had gone mad over the centuries.

"Headmaster."

Silverbane looked up at that correction, guess confirmed he smirked. Well and good there. The two younger snakes startled, made him want to sigh at the stupidity of the younger generation. Surely they got dumber as the years wore on. _He_ was never such a fool.

Revelation… not quite reached all around… but surely alluded to now the painting carried on.

"No Lord, I never was that despite my name." After all why not make it too easy for the little dunderheads? A false lead would teach them not to trust quite so blindly next time around. "Headmaster is the proper title."

And by the glint in those green eyes the library was going to be that little boy's next stop.

A nipped lip and shuffling on Malfoy's part indicated that the owlery was going to be that little boy's next stop.

Or the loo.

He recalled: Wasn't there a story… about three little pigs… of wood and sticks, of brick and stone. A wolf, with a howl to shake foundations ( _Her_ voice, pitched for menace, only laugh worthy, save he wouldn't laugh, wouldn't hurt _her_ so; " _I'll huff and puff_ ") from edges and cause it to come all crumbling down.

This was the ruins of something surely.

He was looking at the ruins of something. So promised the scars among the green, and the nightmarish images he'd captured from wells of green, blue, and steely grey respectively. He stood upon the ruins, but couldn't stand for he was dead. Rather he lingered, a relic of older days, looking out in bewilderment as those from beyond his time looked in with longing.

Something was wrong, surely.

Something, perhaps everything, niggled his heart, though painted it was twisting with worry.

He glowered and growled about lingering, lazy, dunderhead, brats… and they winced, looked guilty, and went on their way. Eldest herding youngest (thankfully that hadn't changed, the world wasn't lost yet) along. At the threshold, he snarled, and to that soft warning Silverbane turned. Waited.

"Remember."

Silverbane nodded. No need for redundant reiteration.

"Come along snakes, bed." Silverbane forced a chirp to his tine.

Typically, Malfoy whined. "But what about-"

Breaking beyond the bounds of typical Potter arrogance, the youngest snarled. "For the love of Merlin, shut u-"

The door slammed shut, they were gone. And once gone he whirled about. Facing a wall that wasn't'. Though without wand, he wasn't without magic.

Even dead he never would be without magic.

So he set himself to worrying at amorphous bounds. Wishing for ebony, working with wishes, hands replaced wand for swish and flick. Hours passed, surely, hours upon hours, but here, now, what did he have but time?


	10. Meet the Snakes part one, Tadrith

An Unraveling

Chapter 10

Waking Memory/Between the Lines

Part one: Meeting the Snakes; Tad

Black is what he recalled, if asked it would have been his first answer. Instinctive, without reason, the answer was born, and if pressed he would have hesitated, backtracked, and tried to explain why. And more likely than not, he would have failed.

Black dominated the man. Black eyes, black humor, lank greasy black hair, flowing black robes. It made an impression. Though the texture and intensity changed, the predominant hue did not. It overwhelmed the conscious mind, numbed the sense of any other possibility by shear overabundance.

In the waking world, if asked, he recalled black.

In his dreams the dark's importance had been scrubbed clean. Though there, it wasn't as riveting. Rather the smallest things remained. Spidery digits twitching, twisting, fisting… The tremble of that throat as it struggled to swallow vile implications for one and all. That which housed those pit-eyes, the near tidal give and take as that which held responded to that which was held.

Violate, violent, he recalled that too.

An icy control.

So cold he shivered whilst sleeping, until waking, and awoke wondering why.

Elementary school lessons played in his mind, like miscellaneous song from a choir divorced from its church. Neither were a color. One absorbed, the other reflected. One which seemed the likely consumer was not. Typical was adverted, made atypical by inverse.

Such were the stuff of his dreams, all unrealized by his waking mind.

He dreamed in monochrome.

XXX

Above, night's death, sun's coming. So promised the lines upon the mechanical face, the flick of apathetic hands, carrying out each motion with the mindless assurance that all was right in the world. Said face was featureless, driven by forced under its glossy façade.

Such promise faded to true insignificance when one walked away from hearth and warmth. When the pre-dawn gloom obscured the face and its lines were little more than a black blur due to distance. The ticking voice was quit for a quieter (forbidden) venue.

One woke the other, whispers and nudges, a few giggles here and there. After all, all pretenses to maturity aside, they were children. And though this was deathly serious there was something of infantile to the whole. Sneaking away, playing dress up, the sublime pleasure of breaking the rules. In the dark, between dormitories, before they breached the rise between here and there, hoods were flicked into place, scarves of proper dark hue were wrapped about those who'd forgone being hooded.

Thus, properly attired (and indulging in a throwback a generation ago though none knew it) the slipped into the common room. Gazes were met, a mute count of sorts offered with the nod of the head. All were counted all were accounted for. So, they left.

Nine little serpents, from the common room, wrapped up in darkness, what shall we do?

X

Albus' had tried suability, a note given via an accidental jostle in the overcrowded hall. A barrowed owl and quickly scrawled letter had been his second, most blatant effort. The last was a charm that made parchment into a winged thing. He'd been sorta proud at his, it was kind of dragony, not quite a dragon, but the tail and wings were definitely Horntail inspired. His dragon though dripped ink rather than breathed flame, the claws didn't rend, merely gifted the holder paper cuts.

While it wasn't perfect it was near enough, he'd let the last go with a smug smile.

James' replies had been curt, blunt, and a little scary.

In short they were –in order of effort- burn, hex, and torch.

Frustration didn't even cover his feelings; fear had something to do with it. Fear held him back from speaking what he was really feeling. Surely his eyes had burned as he swept up his last effort least someone slip on the ashes. He blinked, and told himself he didn't feel the cold trails leaking form his eyes, dripping down his chin.

What he did feel –so much he started- was a touch. To that he lifted his head and saw another first year looking down, upon seeing the glimmer to Albus' eyes the other Snakeling nodded a greeting.

"I know, gotta older brother in Hufflepuff. He sorta talks to me, but his Sett mates hold him back sometimes."

Albus nodded, though in truth he wanted nothing more than to cry. To throw him arms around the other snake and really sob. He wasn't a baby though-

(And more truthfully, in deeper places, he heard Uncle Ron loud and clear, " _You can't trust a Snake. They'll stab you in the back. They all do_ ")

-he was a big boy, and big boy's didn't cry.

"Come on… Severus, wasn't it?"

He wanted to shake his head, explain, but Albus felt too tired to go through the whole mad mess yet again. How he was Albus-Severus, one name, not just Albus, not just Severus… Really, Dad had the sickest sense of humor sometimes...

"Yeah."

"Can I call you Sev, for short?"

"Sure." He tried a smile, tried to still the shaking of his chin, the thickening of his throat. Rushed, spoken while he still had speech, he dared. "What's your name?"

The brunette grinned, blue eyes glimmering with mirth. "Why, you haven't heard of me? I'm a wonder of wonders!" The boy puffed out, looked like some preening Gryffindor like that. And Albus laughed just had too. "I'm Slytherin's first ever mudblood and house mascot besides! Prometheus Tadrith at your service, sorta, maybe, if the pay's good! Just call me Tad!"

"Well at least I don't have the shortest name anymore." Albus drawled, letting the ashes fall where they were.

He smiled again, it wasn't so stiff this time, didn't hurt as bad as before. Albus stood, settled his glasses just so, then offered his hand. Muggleborns, he remembered, liked to shake hands. Bow to a Wizard-born, shake a muggle-born. At least that's what Aunt 'Mione had always taught him.

"Ew... no way…"

Oh, yeah, the ashes. Blushing Albus whipped his hands over his robes, both were black so the smear wasn't so obvious. He tried again, and with a slight grimace and a firm grip, Tad took the hand.

"Aren't we supposed to be bowing or something?" Tad asked.

"While holding hands?" Albus countered.

"Err... Right, bad idea there mate. Bad images."

Not one to criticize someone so nice… Albus had to admit that Tad was a bit… impulsive. Just a mite, mind.

"So," slinging an arm over the other short named boy's shoulders, Tad lead him along to their first class. "Best friends?"

"Umm.. well…"

"Great!"

Perhaps, Albus corrected himself, Tad wasn't just a little impulsive, rather a lot impulsive.


	11. An Olive Branch Offer

An Unraveling

Chapter 11

Monochrome: Part 2:

An olive branch offer

He hung in the ineffable span, drifted down from where he started without the sensation of falling or flight. Once up, he came down, following the law of physics in the physically impossible place. It was just that simple.

He stood on a plane without roads, a vista without direction, without landmark. Horizon line lost to the distance, details lost in their absence. All was empty, save for contrasts.

Black earth, white sky, or perhaps he walked along the back of night looking up upon the earth like some wayward star without its shine. To what he stood on, he was unsure. It was sturdy, durable, yet malleable enough so that he didn't break a foot with each step.

Driven, he walked. No outside force did the driving, merely an impulse.

So impulse he indulged, he put one foot in front of the other.

No father's arms were extended to catch him if he fell.

No mother's voice to encourage, sympathize.

Still he walked, on the back of day and night, never knowing the razor thin line he paced at the time.

XXX

Two left (leaving seven, lucky seven) to make the final route. The ones who remained watched the door and the other's back. Vipers both, they didn't need an audience to see a legend. So sure, so _firm_ was their belief they'd be legends themselves given time. Time and ambition and the leeway to make their dreams (and nightmares) come true.

Such was the hubris of Slytherin.

Seven Serpents and Vipers remained to fully quit the lighter, sanctioned, roads. Those left behind lingered on the edge, wands out, eyes wide. Those who remained wended through filth (a few "ews" marked the squeamish from the non) and took the winding staircase down and down, to the deepest depth. At the end, tucked in the corner like an afterthought (save it was more than an afterthought, truly abandoned) something glossy and long writhed back from the light of their coming.

And reached for the life, the magic, of their blood.

Crippled by deaths' approach, it never quite touched, failed in its stirrings and was never seen to boot.

Thy entered one by one, hoods –as they were requisite for every house meeting- pulled up. Scarfs wound tight in those final steps, they crept out of the dark. For one moment, just one, masks lurked under the hoods. But the moment passed, as all moments must.

Whispers rose, gasps, hisses of shock.

Proving they were the Serpent's children, without fail.

The subject of their study stared at them, studied them in silence. Dead met living at long last. A power meeting power, it was a moment for the history books. Save history was terribly lax in sending someone along to take the notes. The ones before him, so the painting mused, were terribly alive. Bound and shackled without use of key, such was the slant of the horror they called life.

The other… well he had to smirk as realization hit home. He was a terror all his own. Both hellishly alive –and furious, best not to forget that- and woefully dead. Pick which was worse. Impotence or fury, in this case they walked hand in hand today.

Tonight.

This night.

"Is this all you have for me?" He drawled, masking frustration with sarcasm. A familiar façade to one and all, when he'd been alive, you see. "I expected more."

Seven serpents, hand in hand at first, they recoiled in a wave at his voice. _Their_ voices stilling in shocked gasps. Really, what did they expect of him? To be stone still, mute, and to communicate his will with a raise of an eyebrow and push ideas in their little minds? While he could –roundabout, illegally, and with a helpful dose of legilimancy to speed things around- such efforts required both time and familiarity. Circumstances denied them both.

So he made due with leaner means.

Malice slowed his words, brought enunciation to the fore. "I _asked_ a question."

Hooded heads looked from one to the other. Did they imagine they had secrets? Secrets from him, no less? Dead or not he was still a Slytheirn, and Salazar's twisted soul he was no man's fool. He'd marked them by their first outburst, pinned voices to frames and tentative names (or surnames) to masked facades. They carried on in silence, ignoring him (fools) for a while. Save for a few gestures (he added mannerisms to the whole of his notes, a few odd slants of a few odd hands, one boy's deformed fingers –one very short pinky, the end bitten off long ago- became an instant identifier) all was quiet.

So he waited, black eyes still, but for the flickering of his pupils when a Lumos flared or failed. The last caused some cursing amongst them. Vile mouths, one and all, he itched to give detention across the board.

Still, caution held him back. Curious, how when they fanned out they'd made an arch. Arches supported things, and in either case they supported the wall and its occupant. Whether as an apex or a base was left to one's perspective.

One stiffened, a prelude to stepping forward, and he wasn't disappointed when this one did just that. Palsied hands took hold the hood, and the painting waited and was rewarded with what he expected.

With a shudder the hood was pulled of, and the dead studied the living face to face. It had been far too long. Still he recalled the forums. A bow, dead to living, hesitantly the living followed suit.

"Mr. Silverbane." Whispered, audacious, followed his "assumption". Thus you build an appearance of omnipotence, one miracle at a time. "Good evening, I do hope this isn't all."

Because they were damned if it was.

"We're four shy, two to watch the exits, two in the infirmary. Wizarding flu, a bad batch.

"I've never heard of a good batch."

To that another nod, a mute touché. Chastised the boy flushed, still was pinked when he stood again.

While amusing the entertainment waned when one considered what waited. Not one to dally though the painting leaned against the wall, masking anxieties and the like with a show of bored nonchalance.

Some habits die hard, even after death, they linger.

"What year is it?"

"What's the last thing you remember?" The Prefect countered, though his tone was cool he blushed at his audacity.  And to the meekness and the daring his elder glowered.

Still, it was something for something, though poorly given. Despite the bitter (the terror) the painting smiled. Something for something, it was comfortable and torturous one in the same. After all this time... it was good to be home. Amongst others like him.

XXX

"Salazar save him." Malfoy murmured to his back, like a prayer, at his leaving. He waved his hand too, a kinda Protego without the wand.

All in all it wasn't a promising start.

Ignoring that he stood, and as he approached... they stared. Teachers, students, the statuary that held up the magical ceiling which showed the outside was bright and sunny this morning… All right, the latter had to stare, they were statues and looked down and all, but did they have to stare right at him? Still, they did spiteful wishes to the contrary aside.

So under such scrutiny he edged to the other table. Red and gold were in abundance, out of all the tables it was the most vibrant. Such were the rewards of heroism, he supposed. The right to be loudest in a world that loved its own drabness.

A tentative tap opened a place. Some second year yelped like he'd been burned. Squealing about Snake Cooties and the infirmary the older student made a quick exit out the hall

With a snort he took his place at the Gryff's table James looked on, like nothing had happened. Not even a smile.

That was bad; James was never without a smile.

"Hey James."

No response, well not the proper one anyway. Stuffing another banger (reaching around his brother's hand to do so) the older Gryffindor chewed as noisily and messily as possible. Albus opened his mouth, seeing the swallow (who couldn't?) and James did the same. Save he stuffed another mound of eggs in his mouth and went back to chewing.

Around, about, the Lion's glowered.

Desperate (he didn't know why, just felt it, bone deep) he set his tie (too tight) and swallowed. Without food or drink for an excuse. Forcing a smile, he fell on an old standby.

"H… How's Lily?"

Because, surely the green edges of his black robes, the stripes of his tie meant less than their baby sister. The one James loved to dote over, to brag about (like he had his little brother, once upon a time ago.)

(Two weeks ago.)

"At home."

Bitter realization, belated revelation (he'd been bad, done something Unforgivable, no curse required) Albus' smile wasn't the only thing that was watery just then. Pulling off his glasses –losing the world awhile- he blinked. Nothing fell, sure of _that_ if not himself, he stood.

"You... you picked Gr… Gryffindor than?

To that James nearly choked. Showing a sudden Slytherin understanding for subtleties and his brothers' mind, James glared up. More accident than malice had caused the younger boy to smile, it was a shame James caught sight of it though; the glare once hostile, morphed into something deadly at the prompt of upturned lips.

Looking down, even as his brother hatefully looked up, he stared into his father's face and wondered if James thought the same. Both had something of their father's shape, both sported grandmother Lily's green eyes. Glasses adorned both boys, vanity for one, (gold rimmed, graceful, and glossy, the Weasley's had done well at war's end, enough to indulge the occasional bit of silliness) necessity for the other (black rimmed, thick, with an attendant myopic squint to attest to that).

All accidental, they summoned father's ghost, one for the other. Save he wasn't…

All grim and glowering James looked at his younger brother then looked away.

"James." The younger sighed. "Really, are we going to pretend to be five again?"

With a growl James stood, pushed the chair back. Ignoring that, and how it scraped in the companying silence, Albus let a snarl out all his own. He lunged, snapped up his older brother's wrist. Never mind the food and the like that was between them (or the lovely stain his sleeve was going to acquire after the fact) he crossed the distance before James could storm off.

The answer came quick, a snarled stinging hex. It hit, hurt, and only was bearable because James wasn't the one who cast it.

Looking up into apathetic eyes, Albus shivered, suddenly more than just a little bothered. Truly, truly he was scared, scared deep by that distance.

"Damn it Jamie!" He hissed, and apathy was lost. Granted hostility's return wasn't a bit better but…

"Don't call me that!"

"Father used too..."

And with the narrowing of green eyes that were and were not his own, Albus knew he had just slammed the first nail in the coffin.

"Don't. Call. Me. That."

"Fine… but don't ignore me."

Wrenching his arm free James rubbed when Albus ha touched him. Thinking he'd held on too hard the Slytherin opened his mouth to apologize. James beat him too it, to opening his mouth, that was.

"Don't touch me you slimy Slytherin!"

Furious, Albus stood, stiff, straight, his green eyes flashing. "I was your brother first before I was sorted you jack-"

Boots clicked as someone else crossed the distance from where _they_ were to where the two brothers argued. A shadow slid over Albus, but he didn't turn at the mute prompting of a dubious authority. Still, he was Snake enough to know when to shut up, for now, but the glimmer in his eyes warned his brother it wasn't over.

James, all on his own, decided to end it before it could begin again.

"My brother," the older grated out, "was named Albus. He had a good Gryffindor name suiting the lion he was supposed to be." Eyes a thin green slit, James continued, meeting shock with anger so deep it might be hate. "I don't know anyone named Severus," Insincerity, cutting and snide, laced the last. " _So_ sorry."

Done, the older stormed off. Red trim blurred in the sight of burning eyes. The Serpent rubbed smarting eyes, and like his brother before him he stormed off. Never turning to acknowledge the tap-tap as a digit poked his shoulder.

Only later, days later, he'd sorta remember how he'd shoved a black blurry figure out of his way.

He'd never recall actuality though. Only the blur of black and sense of motion. Something in him snapped, told him to run, and obeying some half mad instinct he had run. The world broke down into fragments, fractures he'd not hold onto least the whole cut him to ribbons.

Words, beyond him, above, resounded.

"Kid, you gotta move, this isn't a Snake's place." A shove, silence as the featureless speaker faded into their true insignificance. He twisted about, seeing the open path before him…

Behind, beyond, the Lion's growled, but they were quit for quieter saner places at a dead run.

"Albus Severus Potter!" The head serpent roared from the teacher's table. Save he wasn't. Wasn't a snake.

So he didn't heed.

Door banged open, their edges surely shattered at the force of his shove.

Going, going, running ran, gone.

"God damn it!" Struggling though the mess of stupefied Snakes, Silverbane forced himself to the fore. Short breath and half asleep legs made it a trial. Eyes sunken in their sockets per lack of sleep their black rims made him look ragged, despite his wear and weary voice he mustered enough steel to glare down at his two Snakelings. "Malfoy, Tadrith," More croak than syllable, the first, but he'd been shouting after Severus too. "What the hell just happened? What was he doing with the Lions?"

"Wanted to talk to his brother I guess…" Scorpius blinked, not knowing why Severus hadn't turned around, even when their head was howling about detention and the like. "He..." Feeling sick the Snakeling swallowed. "He said he missed his brother… I tried to talk him out of…"

"Next time tell one of the Seventh years- Damn it, Tadrith, no!"

Snapping up his Snakeling's arm, he stopped the hot head from casting a burning hex among the Lion's Den by the barest of margins. Surely there were sparks. As for smoke, there was oodles of that, for all of the snakes about the three coughed.

Prefect Silverbane took it further, unable to catch his breath he nearly collapsed on the staring snakes around him. Only the fleeting thought of failing coherency got him to aim for the bench. He landed on the edge but fell when the coughing couldn't, wouldn't, ease up.

Hustle and bustle, a woman in white broke through the panicky Snakes all about her, firmly pushing the gapping, apologetic, Tadrith away she stood over the Prefect. Pain and understanding was written in equal measure in her eyes as she looked down, pulling a wand of holly from her apron pocket. Curious, she was a curious thing, she looked to be middle aged but her clear blue eyes seemed a hundred. Surely older.

"M… madam…" Because that's how you addressed Medi-witches, unless they were boys, of course.. "He started coughing and.. couldn't… he couldn't…." Malfoy gulped, not wanting to say the rest.

At least he was sort of coherent, Tadrith was anything but, crying even.

Cool hands rested on the young Malfoy's head, an assurance, one finger brushed his lips, a request. Locked in her shell of silence the woman swished and flicked lips moving as the wordlessly voiced he spells. Intricate symbols spelled out of nothing, floated in the air, and seemed to be an answer to an unspoken prayer. Numbers and symbols which spilled themselves willy nilly over the wheezing boy's head, deciphered by expert eye she nodded here, frowned there, and pulled the shaking Slytherin Prefect close. Around, about, others bustled about, offering help, assurances. Someone pulled Tad away, a small blessings there.

But she never looked up. That curious medi witch never once responded to the jostle of a crisis adverted or to the stinging hexes some Gryffindor's shot their way. An "oops!" assured that at least one had been shot at her, surely her wince indicated there'd been a hit. But she didn't turn, didn't glower at her would be assailant, and most important of all she didn't cry out in pain.

Hands hovering over Silverbane's pale face, the woman's touch leaked an odd blue illumination that seeped into the Prefect's nose and mouth. Slowly, but sure, the shuddering gasps became steady breathes. A moan and the boy cracked open eyes that had been scrunched shut.

"Hurts…" The older Snake whimpered, hands clutching his chest in recalled pain.

A touch, she cupped the older Snake's cheek in her hands, smiling sadly. Looking up, the Prefect groaned again.

"How… In public?" The older Snake whined, face flushing about the edges.

She couldn't answer, though there was something in her smile that seemed an answer all its own. Still, Silverbane couldn't see it, probably couldn't see clearly at all. So Malfoy answered for them both.

"About as public as you can get, we're still in the Hall."

"Great…" Those watery watering eyes slipped closed. "Great…"

"Yeah, that hall, the Great one."

A hand smacked him lightly on the head, and Malfoy turned and tried a charming smile. One of his best, one his father had patented long ago. The waging finger inches from his nose and that little glower told him that his charm wasn't working.

Drat, well he'd try again later, maybe when he was in trouble…

He shrugged off the wordless scolding, and surprising himself by asking "How can I help."

It wasn't even insincere.

XXX

He ran, ran ‘til his heart surely burst dare he stop. He ran until up was down, and down up, until the stair and their sanctioned turn times were a blur and he didn’t know where he was. He only knew that he ran forward, daring edges and falls with a reckless hurt abandon.

He ran in silence, the thrumb of his heart's palpations drowned out each rasped breath, muted each foot fall with a racket all its own.,

No one noticed no one saw. All where were they were supposed to be after all. The Great Hall. And when one is in their place a flight to the forbidden, no matter how accidental, was easily overlooked.

Only when the winding stair leading down ran out did he realize where he was. The nausea, the crunch of staggering foot falls, and the clench of his stomach helped memory along.

"And what do we have here?"

That and the voice of Slaazar.

The day just kept getting better.

"A Potter ditching class, ah the nostalgia this brings back…"

He wanted to snarl a "oh shut up" had it been anyone else he might of tried… But the hitch in his side gave him enough time to think twice. Recall who this was. So he thought, looked about that familiar rounded room, and croaked out a few pained noises instead.

Eventually words came, eventually.

"New... You got new … paintin's…"

My _prison_ ," came the wry rejoinder, "was recently renovated."

The hall to nowhere was still the center piece. To its immediate left, frame (bronze abutting black, the contrast was subtle and irritating upon realization) linked frame, world to world. It was a study of sorts. Flowery, fluffy and done in blues, bronze, and filled till brimming with bright sunlight. Various knickknacks –most of them vases with ambitions and flora inhabitants- indicated gender, colors and the eagle book holders on the bookshelf indicated House. Framed by an impressive bookshelf, the only living (if that wasn't an oxymoron) inhabitant of that imaginary word glowered at him.

Or perhaps he glowered at the light.

Really it was a bright painting.

Speaking of bright… or rather it's opposite black, tucked in the darkest corner –save there were no corners it was a round room after all- was a picture. This place was a curious aberration. A tower without a peak, leading down instead of up to better observe the worms in their burrowing, save there were no windows. _Something_ was pinned to the further wall. A sketch of a bed, ripped form... something. The bed skirt shivered under the boy's scrutiny as something under it stirred.

Curiosity and wind returning in equal measure he meant to move forward, just take a little peak…

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you. There's a boggart under the bed."

Nausea forgotten, pain forsake (for now, but it'd comeback, he was sure it'd be his most constant companion when he slept) living blinked up at the dead. "A wha-"

"Boggart, you _do_ know what that is, correct?"

"Nope."

A sigh, slow snarky, sharky, all at once. Clearly he was some sort of idiot and that sound was a trademark non-verbal way of telling him that. Quitting the study (with a bounce to his step) "Salazar" slipped into the hall proper and once centered set a glower to his young Snake.

"Think of it as a Boggey man" It's as close a Muggle approximation I've ever heard."

"Oh." He'd had a boggy man, in the closet actually, and memories of those childhood terrors (where he'd been sure there was something. Something in that corner, in the box that Mustn't-Be-Opened…) encouraged him to forget curiosity for a time. "So, you have a… a boggy man in our bed… and that's a normal, wizarding thing?"

Grimacing at the slaughtering of his beloved King's English "Salazar" shifted, wondering what to correct first. Misconception, first… With a grunt the man's slender arms crossed.

"Under." Came the curt correction. "And it's the only bed picture someone could find for me."

"Well," if you couldn't say something nice… and pointing out how flippant someone was with sleeping with a boogey man was _not_ nice… "That was nice of... someone being… thoughtful."

Sorta.

At least he managed a straight face through it all.

"Humph… My sleeping habits aside… Though I am bereft of calendar, window, and the like to keep me abreast of the day I am more than capable of using my own sense to keep track of time. My point," the boy yawned,. "My _point_ ," the painting snarled. "Is that the day is Friday, and you've only twenty minutes to clean up and go to class, I'm sure the world hasn't changed so much that Fridays do not have classes."

The tone warned what would happen if the boy tried to say that the world had changed that much. He wasn't a fool to buy that.

Recalling the day, feeling it press close, and his side hurting all the while, Severus shrugged. "I'm not going. Not today."

He sat, indifferent to the muck on the floor. Indifferent to the deadly gleam to "Salazar's" eyes the boy spread himself on the floor like it was springtime's most pristine field.

"I don't have time to coddle a pouting Snakeling through a snit. Pick yourself _off_ the floor and _march_ to the showers, or else."

"Or else what?" No defiance, only a weary curiosity… to that tone the Old Serpent's eyes softened, just a bit.

"You'll miss class for one…"

Oh. To that "loss" the Snakeling could care less. Wiggling, wedging in deeper (something crinkled with a click under him) Albus ignored the man. Dead man. Painting. Whatever he was.

Sensing the change of mood, sympathy –if that's what it was- made a quick exit and razors took softness' place.

"You have ‘til three to get up, or I'll take points." A hiss at the answering shrug. "At an exponential rate."

Another shrug, Albus pulled his book bag into his lap at gesture's end. Flipped the top flap…

"One…"

A notebook and pen all but popped out. Despite the contrast the spiral notebook made he set both besides him missing the…

"Two…"

Ah, there it was! An inkwell! That came out last and he set it on a flattish span...

"Three!"

The whip crack intonation made him look up, only that.

"Two points from Slyhterin."

With a "whatever" shrug the Snakeling fished out his history book (ministry sanctioned) written by some "Umbarge" person and found his place a few page flips later. Text before him he nipped his pen and tried to ignore the racket from the wall.

"Four points from Slytherin... Tell me, Mr. Potter, you do know how exponential function increase works, don't you?"

No inspiration for his paper coming Albus was game to answer that. "Sixteen's next." The boy answered, next coming out as "ex-ugh" as he licked his pen tip and dipped in in the well.

"Correct, sixteen points from Slytherin."

With a sigh Albus figured it to be a day. And he didn’t want to be found. Luckily the painting called this place a prison, and people didn't look in prisons. So he figured he'd be safe. Pulling out a few more books –hardly wizarding, but wizarding sanctioned- he laid out all the contents of his studied. "Essay writing for the young witch/wizard", "punctuation so simple muggles could do it", grammar books with dubious names and the like were spread about. Perhaps it was the boy's audacity, the utter indifference to a threat that had cowed generations, but the dead man stilled his rant.

And read the books covers for a while.

Reading done he shook himself and snapped out. "Two hundred and fifty six points from Slytherin."

"Headmast-"

A snort cut off the dubious question. "Remorse already, Mr. Potter. A new trick for your bloodline at last! Too little too late however. I'd expect-"

Mr. Slaazar-" Albus tried again.

"Headmaster." Snarled the painting, then as an afterthought. "And ten points from Slytherin for disrespecting a professor."

Really, why did he try, still he'd brave one more barked "loss".

"Headmaster, Salazar, sir."

It was the utter lack of sarcasm, the slight note of resignation that stilled the painting from his mathematical contemplations. Black eyes blinked, and then the face housing them went still, expressionless in waiting.

"What subject sir?"

A glower. "What subject?" The painting parroted back in poorly concealed shock.

"Yeah, that I have to write um…" Fingers twitched as _something_ was counted. "Thirteenish essays for?" Stupefaction wasn't just a spell, it was an expression. In "Salazar's" face that expression was expressionless. Only the slight widening of those eyes gave inflection away.

"You know, points, for class?"

"Do you know what house points are for?" "Salazar" thundered.

All accidental Albus answered and explained in one pass.

"House points, houses' don't get points, we get points. That's why we're Zeros, starting students, cuz we don't have any."

Zeros…

The word hung between them Silence, not flight born, not antagonistic, hung between the two of the, There was no threat of number now, for surely Salazar had lost count amongst the revelations. Thoughtful, slowly, black met green and left no headache this time.

"Things have changed…"

It sounded like a… what was it… an olive branch offer? Albus'd read about it somewhere. If it were back at the hall, if he were being offered such from his brother… But James wasn't here. No one was, really. It was just him and this dead man's last thoughts, a ghost of a personality that didn't have the courtesy to be magical and translucent like that one ghost he'd seen.

If James were here, offering, he'd of snapped it up. Snapped up the offer, clumsy as it was.

Maybe, just maybe Silverbane would be here later, but later wasn't _now_ and James was more than gone.

He considered, nipped his lip, and then offered something of his own.

"I'm sure the floors were cleaner."

"They were. We kept Squibs and truant students for that. They were set to scrub the floors, with toothbrushes, at all hours. It encouraged good attendance."

"Then they'd use them afterword’s?" Albus smirked, obviously not believing a word.

"Always." The smirk was returned, surely it live lively in those black eyes.

That one word seemed a joke. One whose punch line he'd missed. Still the Snakeling grinned and understood this. That once, just this once, breaking the rules would be alright.

Their mutual understanding was confirmed a second later.

"What subject are you working on now, lay about?" The dead man growled.

Albus thought about sticking his tongue out, decided he wasn't suicidal, and simply sighed.

"Grammer; one oh one."

"Open the book wider." Came the surly order. "And come closer, the plane's not right for reading at this angle."

Not quite getting the thing about planes and the like Albus did obey however, and while he worked the painting read over his shoulder, scowling all the while.

 


	12. Doing it Right

An Unraveling,

Chapter 12

Doing it right

 

"65539, 3276.8, 20, the variable of alteration is division…. Twenty into 65539 becomes…"

He was grilled ruthlessly, between answers the lackluster scribbles on his notebook slowly morphed into an essay.

And while he worked, he was drilled on random, hard, problems. Logic, Math, Science, as Muggle as the topics which he labored to complete were, the random inquires that were tossed his way were almost as bad.

Difficulty aside, he'd been industrious under the dead man's eye. Today's homework was done without attending class. Such was the ho-hum magic of a self-updating syllabus. Though teacher he'd been, Salazar snorted when he'd seen the contraption (so he'd named the charmed paper). Long nose wrinkled in obvious distaste, the man grunted.

"Any fool with a scrap of imagination could alter it…. Besides it detracts from the joys of surprise quizzes, impromptu in class essays, and cuts down on the whining those inspire. Thus making it harder to fabricate the occasional cleaning detention when one's feeling lazy."

Nice to see he had the best in mind for his students. Albus would have dared, might have said something to that effect, but common sense stilled his tongue. Imagining the man's response the Snakeling went back to work, with a smile.

Both (one deliberate the other not) had missed the true point. Sickness now was no longer an excuse to miss applying effort. Not in Hogwarts, not anymore.

They'd, the dead man and him, had started this whole fiasco on magical topics. A few questions later when Albus hadn't known anything was enough of a discouragement for "Salazar" to change tracks.

Still, a question lingered, one willfully unanswered. "Are you a wizard, or are you not? You half act like a damn Muggleborn…"

Never mind the glower his silence had earned him, Albus hadn't said a word and with a sigh they'd carried on.

Not that Salazar'd gotten any nicer about the whole "study session" The Snakeling had complained twice, once about the painting's nastiness (he'd been educated on where exactly the door was for his troubles) and for the sheer difficulty of each inquiry.

The last had garnered an odd response. A softening, not a pre-smile sort of softening, but a definite lessening of that bitter edge that so defined the man. Waving a hand that wasn't, "Salazar" indicated he look about.

Glad for the reprieve he'd done so.

"Do you see any sand, Snakeling?"

Confused, he uttered a truth. Not a half truth that got him by, but a whole one. "N... no…"

"Then there is no place to hide your head."

He thought about that. There was an expectance that he always had to think. He'd been scolded more times in his life for _not_ thinking this whole morning in this one room, than in every other place in his whole life _combined_.

So he thought.

A curious image teased his mind. A snake, head thrust into the sand, body sticking out like a viridian exclamation point upon tan sands. Twisting, on itself, trying futile to wrench its head out of the twin ricks that it had wedged it's head between… He'd had his suspicions, the workings of his mind were rarely in pictures that he recalled. But Salazar wasn't staring at him.

No Salazar was too busy folding his robes about him as he sat. A creek indicated where he say. Soft, blue (baby blue no less) and gaudily illuminated. Though both (though the boy didn't know the man shared his opinion) the sunny study it had a chair. And standing on your feet (dead or not) made one yearn for a break. As comfortable as he could be amongst the contrast, the Headmaster looked up, then to the side.

From the distant corner the bed rumbled, the sound was almost a roar…

Several rebukes ago had taught the Snakeling not to look no matter what the wound "it" made.

"A…a snake" The head turned back to him, black hair gleaming and swishing just so. "with its head in the sand's kinda useless."

"Very. Kind of." Came the expected correction. A half smile, lopsided with the left raised higher than the while was his reward. And lean as it was, it _was_ a reward.

"The epitome." All expression faded then as the man nodded to the paper before Albus. "Write."

So he did.

Five to six lines he'd have to stop and answer without fail -

( _I give you one bucket three gallons, the other holds one gallon. How could you fill the lesser without spilling or wasting any water with no other tools save water and bucket?_ )

At first it had irritated the bloody blazes out of him. He'd snapped at the man first time, and it was the last. The rebuke about leaving (abandonment) had hurt. So he'd dropped his head and-

(At which degree does water boil, which does it freeze? In Celsius and Fahrenheit if you will)

Later, only much later he'd recalled the structure of a paragraph. An opening, three to four supporting lines, and a close. The "ah ha" came during a break. Lunch at the great hall to be exct. Having changed out of his smelly robes he'd been told to eat and given an hour's reprieve from his efforts to still his stomachs rumbling and "interact" with his housemate. He was to come back after.

But only if he had other work to do.

Lay-abouts weren't welcome, a Snake had to have some snap, a sharp eye and a sharper fang and all that.

Clearly being part of Slytherin meant thinking in Snake like analogy's. Shaking his head, wondering if he was ever going to get this wizard house thing down ever, he nipped to the hall. There he had snapped up a glass, nursing both juice and headache with equal delicacy. The headache gave an excuse for him not to talk to Tad, who'd discovered that Scorpius was sitting right next to his best mate and wouldn't budge. After a rather rude "shove off" had been ignored Tad declared war, but kept it to words.

More than game and eager to put the Mudblood to his place Malfoy'd accepted the challenge.

Watching the plain talking excitable Tad poke the air out of Scorpius' attempted lofty rebuttals with a slew of "but whys", "I lost the point of that somewhere, help me find it!" and one memorable "Boring, next topic please!" had caught the whole house's attention. But in a good way. Albus wasn't the only Snake to laugh between bites. Scorpius' face reddened as the "battle" went on, and Tad's smirk declared the winner before contests end. Unable to keep his mirth to a smirk Tad started laughing, at himself, at the other Snakes, and Malfoy started to make something of a comeback since he could finish sentences at that point.

When both were laughing… Well Scorpius was smiling, in public no less, but that had to be worth something, Albus stood. He had to go, study. Heartened by his lack of headache he tossed down the last of his juice and made to leave.

"See you later, in afternoon class, Sev?"

"It's Albus-Sev-" Scorpius tried to explain to Tad.

"Sev's quicker…"

"Yes, bu-"

"Quicker!" Sing songed the Snake. "You just agreed and now you can't take it back!"

To that musical rebuttal Scorpius gave up. Gave up on talking, good posture, and the like. A slump, a thump, and Scorpius' head landed on his crossed arms atop the table.

" _Why_?" The Snakeling moaned, never mind the laughter of his mates.

"Why not?"

Though kinda muffled, Scorpius' head banging continued. A few other houses stared, and Albus flashed his weary friend a parting smile.

"You are _late_."

Did he mention how intimidating slow enunciation was? It was fast becoming his first phobia. Though his headache didn't return allowing him that excuse to bolt he was certain his stuttering heart would count as an…

"I'm… I'm sorry…" Surprise twisted those features before the stormy anger retook the features. "I… well I had a bit of last second inspiration."

Pulling out his soiled robes from earlier he laid them on the floor. Sitting on the cleanest spans he sighed.

Much better.

A grunt ghosted form behind the raised book. It obscured the man who while had enough ime to comment on tardiness seemed to find a greater pleasure in ignoring the person who was late once they arrived. Really, it was impressive, between all the obstructions, the Veil, a painted book, half a room, it was a wonder that the soft sound could be heard at all. Notebook, pen, inkwell (filled and placed atop a flattish span at would be blanket's edge) in place the Snakeling made himself more comfortable.

He was in for a wait, he was sure.

A few pages turned, long fingers tensed, as if the digits considered an idle rending to spice up the reading. The impulse was contained with a disgusted sigh.

"Any good?"

"Trash. Sit still and be quiet, I've a few pages to go."

So he sat, was still, until curiosity twiddled his nerve and he leaned as close as her perch would allow. He could sorta see the books spine, there was a T there to be sure…

Without looking up, a page turned and there was a pointed glower. It was special,, able to cross viel and book and distance and not lose an ounce of its potency. Abruptly, he named that glare the "target of displeasure will feel it through this book" sort of glower, Tad would have approved.

Yes, he was being irritating, and disrespectful (in his own mind) but he want to see what the man was reading. But, to be nice, he downgraded his squirming to an occasional wiggle.

 _Not_ nice those long fingers spread, obscuring the title even more and the T was lost.

He huffed at the unfairness of life… hoped that maybe… hopefully…

"If you're having a problem, feel free to find the loo."

His answering glower tried to do what Salazar's did. Tried to reach through space, time, impossibility and book and it clearly failed. A page turned, slower than the other ones he was sure.

 _Bastard_.

"You could be editing your previous efforts now." A pause, then, "and ten points for language."

A sigh, Albus'd mouthed the word, but… Flip went another page, and the world moved on.

"You read the whole book, in an hour?"

A nod was his answer. Bloody hell, the man speeds reads, mouth reads, and reads minds. That was a lot of reading.

"I…" insert melodramatic pause, really the man was funny without trying, Earlier irritation quick to subside at the hint of drama in the air, Albus scooted to the edge. "Have risked sanity, mental stability, and the surety of my own thoughts for the last hour. My eyes surely must be gouged out for sanitation a lab ever becomes available I will be quite busy brewing liquefied though, so I can place the memory of the text out of my mind and into a pensive. In short," the last page turned and the book snapped shut. Digits were artfully (spitefully) spread to hide the title once more. "I have read eleven year old sugar inspired trite of higher mental caliber than this filth."

Taking the hind for what if was meant to be he flipped open a folder, his first essay and pulled out a red inking pen. His first self-correction was the easier. Scratch out the text that lay in the upper right corner. Black eyebrows rose at that, black eyes spied for a glimmer of green, but the boy was all but bent double now.

So, he indulged a smirk no one would see flipped open the trashy romance to peruse the jacket flap.

Horror of horrors awaited him, he stopped reading, than _re-read_ , utterly flabbergasted…

"She won an award…"

"You're kidding me." Albus looked up. "For trash."

"For trash. " A sigh. "Ravenclaw was a twit."

To that bald declaration against one of the founders the Snakeling stopped his writing.

"She created this portrait, its bookshelf is spelled to provide any and every book ever written, and those which have not been, to the painting's occupant…"

But that sounded brilliant, he opened his mouth to say that when "Salazar" rose one long finger.

"Allow me to elaborate, it only provides the occupant with all the _romance books_ ever written,"

The horror came a bit closer, as revelation settled in. "Or not, or was never meant to _be_ published." Albus finished the thought with a shudder. "Ung, she didn't!"

"I." the book snapped shut. "Have endured horrors and hells unimaginable. Torture, humiliation, violation of the very soul, no Dementor's presence could make worse wounds than those I've bared… but this… this…"

With a snarl he turned that dead man threw the book. It spun end over end though the study, zinged across the hall and finally slid under the bed curtain, landing on something that yowled.

Well, Albus would have yelled too, it had been quite a throw. And that was quite a heavy looking book, painted or otherwise.

"Feel better?" The student dared to ask.

"Somewhat." The man smirked. "The brain cells I lost were surely vindicated.

"So..." Nearly as daring as a Lion, save he wasn't, the young Serpent dared. "What was it about?"

Atrocities, like dark lords, bad books, and the like did not dare be named by the faint of heart. But still, they must be discussed, lest they be picked up by the unwary.

"Vampires, sparkling vampires."

"Ung, I'm sorry. That sounds' like something my sister Lily'd love. " To the strange look that followed, the Snakeling sighed. "She loves glitter, really loves it. It's a girl thing, you know?"

"Indeed." An odd note festered in the man's tone; it matched his expression which was part grimace, part grim. "How old is your sister? Ms. Lily Potter?"

"Nine." Then remembering too late (something for something) he fumbled for a question all his own. "How old are you?"

"Old enough." To the answering glare, that mute "that's not fair" from the child the painting sneered. "Older than I was when I died, and that Snakeling, is all you'll get for so poorly worded a question!"

The rebuke shouldn't have hurt. Certainly he'd gotten worse and from other places. Other teachers even (were headmaster's teachers?) had let him have it and he hadn't cared a whit. This did though, it stung, and he flinched. Surely those eyes noticed. They saw everything. The older Snakes whispered of him in quiet places where only a handful were allowed to overhear. _He knew everything_ , this dead man. Like a Basilisk trapped in the walls the stones surely whispered their secrets to him.

They must have. Because two days ago he hadn't been alive. Oh, a relic of old days surely, but he hadn't been awake, aware. His resurrection was all accidental. Childish impulse, a need to see "what's under here" had neither been indulged he'd of moldered with his frame under a cover that was more rag than anything else.

More alive than the living, daring to live when others merely hid to live, Albus stood before this man who'd taken a legend's name as his own and waited.

 _Mix pure trepidation, one pinch of remorse –half realized for the fuller stuff was too strong- instill a dredge of silence, and let time stir briskly now. More fancy than potion, but it was potent all the same_.

Arms crossed, the stirring it seemed was done. Salazar (who wasn't) opened his mouth, closed it, then decision reached opened it one last time.

"Growing fangs is a bitter business. Fangs are, after all, razors with a fancy name and a careless curve. They bloody the gums at their coming and spite your face via your lips."

A moment, for thought perhaps, then, "Your first paper, Mr. Potter, if you please."

In truth though there was no _please_ about it. No other answer allowed. With a sharp gesture –pinky and its attendant finger curled, thumb pinching the fore and second finger just so- the notebook was ripped form his hands by an imaginary force. The pen and inkwell followed suit. Rising like birds (save no squawk or feathers to break the quiet) the man beyond the parchment (beyond the living) made another gesture. This one akin to the last save it had a twist. Less grandiose (less miraculous) the pen dipped itself in its inkwell and with a final tap flew free to better linger over the page.

Invisible hands began a flurry of furious editing, at efforts end there was nary a span that wasn't marked with red. Looking down, form his lofty perch of frame and paint, the older Slytherin softened, but only if you knew where to look, in the depths of those pit eyes.

"It will get easier." Another gesture, the page returned to the hand that penned it. Ink and well soon followed. "Now. Do it again and do it right."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the surfeit of random trivia in the story. It's more than my traditional plot device or narrative element, it was a set up to a contest, the results for those who got it right first would have warranted them... well prizes surrounding this tale (one shots, idea inserts, ect). Regardless there isn't enough activity on this site to warrant it, so I wont be able to run either it, or the "house point" contest I initially ran at the stories original site. But there will be traces of trivia in a few more chapters going in, as to why... well now you know. It's not intrusive enough edit out, but I felt an explanation was due.


	13. Double lessons: part one

An Unraveling

Chapter 13

Double lessons: part one

 

 

At classes end it was the same. The last teacher of the day held them back and laid a pair of small scrolls on their desk. A crooked finger served as a beckoning. Rustle more than familiar –but not enough to be dreaded, not yet- it unrolled. A calendar marking the days, each day of their punishment boxed in red. Each red span as split in twain.

Neat fussy handwriting declared the whole "Punishment sheet" the boxes were divided by punishment's start and stop, and had just enough room on the lowest corner tor two signatures. So who had seen who do what was immortalized.

All for the glory of paperwork the student never marked the time. "Time" began when they scribbled their initials and ended when they trooped into the common room and sought Callow out for his glorified scribble. Granted, Callow found reasons to be busy whenever a truant Snake sought him out, but that was to be expected.

If there was more malice to the "busyness" than usual it flew over the tired Snakeling's heads more often than not.

"Remember," So spoke the sentinel of Gryfindorishness. She wore red and gold, always, was stiff, stiffly dressed, and adored the rigidness of their Grammar (yes, they had grammar teachers, it was a full time class, Albus almost smiled as he recalled yelling that at the irate Salazar some punishments back) Professor. "Three hours at your task, one half hour break, and we'll send dinner down at the usual time."

Which of course was never. Dinner never got sent down, and no one would ever check up on them (much less let them out) for a break.

Not even a bathroom break.

Sick as it was such was the rhyme and rhythm to their punishment. And, there was a whole lot of sick to the whole, order aside. All the rooms were nasty, the tools were flawed, and without access to more water than the buckets could hold it was a waking nightmare to clean the third floor. Filth saturated their hands, filled the flaws, and made not puking up breakfast's ghost a trial.

Professor Camille, ever the Gryfindor, made it worse with a smile. Pens were offered, and with a sigh Scorpius took his up, accepting his fate.

And why shouldn't he? He only had two more days left.

"Mr. Potter?"

Resting to the side, on her side no less, Professor's cat had risen at the first utterance of his name. Green eyes glimmered as she paced around on the bars that served as a floor. As a whole the cage was a dull thing -least she cut herself on the edges- and its occupant clearly was bored. Professor's Camille's cat let out a yowl. One grey stripped paw, each line as delicate as a pen stroke, poked out between the bars, claws bared just so. He'd of gone to her, the cat, offered a scratch or two in understanding. Maybe a treat, the stuff stuffed into his pockets might have tasted fine to the feline tongue, but the cage was hexed.

Any would be cat affectionate was stung to the quick by…

"Mr. Potter!"

The old shrew's tongue… if not a curse…

Lips pressed into a thin line, the lank, stringy old lady who was the epitome of old, bitter, and shrew. Keeping that thought behind his lips. The addressed sighed, took the pen that was threatening to take out an eye, and grimaced at the offering.

Red fletching, gold pinion, figured.

"Sorry ma'am, I…"

"Such a bother, Mr. Potter…"

For a second he looked up, dare hope she couldn't see the paper upon her desk. It was a petty defiance, a pettier wish, but between wrinkles, grimace, and bitter, maybe, just maybe he could try to fill out the whole, get out of his work and…

"If you would." She tapped the paper, clearly done with waiting.

A sigh and he concede the inevitable. Given a chance he'd of challenged the inevitable, but there were no chances here. Heck, if he had luck he'd of risked more punishment and taken the cat out of the sour old bat's care. Nipped her (the cat)_ right down to the dorms, Maybe Silverb-

Remembrance came then, more bitter for being second hand. Fire and smoke, the side effects of a spat with his brother (his fault, all his, and no matter Tad and Scorpius' claims to the contrary) send spiraling out of control. He checked the impulse, all impulse now, and told the pain in his chest to go away. It didn't.

Tad'd already dragged him to the mediwitch when he'd been caught rubbing his aching heart. No medicine had helped then and not wanting to add to the people who'd dragged him any which way the youngest Slytherin stilled the hand that wanted to rub over his breast.

Scritch scratch went the pen as he scrawled his name, and he watched as another red box was half filled. What it was filled with didn't really matter, not anymore.

With a wave of her want the professor set the scrolls to rerolling, and smiled at them both brightly.

"Well, off with you, soonest to you set to fixing the soonest all's mended."

He was sure there was an error in that saying, somewhere. But Albus could hardly care where. A nudge from Scorpius called him back to the world of the living, and at that prompt he turned on his heel and slipped out of the room.

Not before the cheery "Have a goodnight boys!" rang out though.

Stupid Gryffindor's…

XXX

It was like that story of a mouse with a cookie, or maybe a moose with a muffin. Give him one thing and he begged another, than another. Right now all'd been reasonable –no sock puppets yet- and thankfully small.

The most recent was spread before him, pulled from pockets and the like. It actually took all of his cleaned chambers, three days’ worth of "The Prophet" and "The Quibbler" lay side by side. Spread to its fullest, pages turning and returning under the drive of dead eyes. Ultra conservative was abed with the extreme left, post war no less, he'd marveled at that, and when none had laughed he'd sighed something about children and told them to get back to cleaning.

Scarping at a floor with brushes that were more grip than bristle, the Snakelings kept a safe distance away from the violate Salazar. Salazar was not a nice man in normal circumstances, but in a bad mood (which he seemed to indulge more and more lately) he was an awful one. They'd learned that fact a mere two days ago, when something in the obituaries had set the dead man off.

Scorp's "Shouldn't he be happy they're dead too, like him now?" hadn't helped much.

After that fun lesson in etiquette, respect of the dead, minding their own business (never mind they were in the same room, or that Salazar was yelling) and a crash course in words in Latin that probably would have gotten them on a diet of soap if anyone heard them repeat it, their glorified study halls had come to a crashing end.

Even now, two days after, he still wanted to smack Scorpius for his mouth. As it was, said Serpent was well on his way towards getting his own mouth smacked shut all on his own. Keeping his head down, the younger Snakeling waited.

"Stupid, evil, git…" All the pages stopped in their turning, and Albus looked up even as Scorpius found a patch of stonework fascinating. It was better, safer than those glowering black eyes. "Of… of a stain?"

A barked syllable, a yelp, and Scorpius left the room with a stinging bottom and burning eyes. Luckily for Albus he'd done nothing overt, like being mouthy in the portrait's presence to warrant such treatment. Malfoy just didn't learn. You went somewhere private, checked it was private, then ranted.

Wrenching his eyes away from the spectacle of yalping Malfoy, Albus went back to cleaning.

Self-preservation and all that.

"Stop." So ordered he obeyed. Water dripped from the grey frayed bristles. With a wave of his hand the dead man made pages and paper flutter and fold. "You've done enough for now. Put aside your tools," the last came out as a sneer, "and come here."

"But…"

Salazar had set them to finish another quarter of his quarters today. If he stopped now they'd never get it done… Or rather the bulk of the labor would be left for him to do, alone, on later days.

"Mr. Malfoy, once he's composed, will finish what you've started."

 _Mr. Malfoy_ would love that.

He'd dared to meet those black eyes with that thought in his mind. The painting raised an eyebrow, saying so much without a word being spoken. Biting his lips, least he sigh, the Snakeling slipped forward. No stinging hex came his way, as he trekked his way to the Stool. It was an old relic, battered, one leg was chipped, the other too short (it listed, no matter the sitter's weight) and was set right before the painting's frame. Just enough to give an illusion of a desk perhaps. Or maybe that illusion was courtesy of the fact that the painting had rearranged his true blue study and set a table to be lined with the sitter in the stool. Regardless, it had a classroom sort of effect, except the listing.

Albus shifted, tried to get comfortable, and failed quite spectacularly. Nearly fell, actually. Only a quick abandoning of his seat had made the difference between fall and leap. Oblivious to his effort, one stained finger cooked, and a jab indicated where and when he was to set the chair. So the Snakeling adjusted, and sat with a grimace.

Daring, greatly, he twisted his legs among the rungs, caused the list to become a tip, and waited.

And was rewarded with the expected.

"Tell me of your day."

He sighed, just had to; never mind the risk of hex or jynx or whatever.

He'd been through it all once before already. Why again. But those black eyes did not permit him to ask, after all, he hadn't given anything and without actual efforts he'd be given nothing in turn.

"Today's Monday. That means my classes are Charm Theory, Sanctioned History, Flying and Grammer."

Before him, but beyond, the dead man paced, robes snapping,. So much for acting a teacher and lingering behind his desk like a vulture. Still, despite the deviant (Him pacing) the painting held true to their agreement first time out.

If no reprimand was required than scarce eye contact was the request. Such were the peculiarities of their particular, continuous, cyclical conference.

"Charms Theory and Reading, are with Professor Flitwick, House Ravenclaw Head. Sanctioned History for the Young Youth is with Professoress-" to that raised eyebrow Albus _knew_ that look. A bad sign there. "-she insists, please don't rag me for her bad grammar fetish… Anyway Sanctioned's with Patricia Gallonsworth, Unsorted. Flying Safety and Well Being is with Minister employee Callow" the fact that the head of Slytherin… well not-head per Silverbane but still the man insisted on his title… was a Flying instructor set bad with him, though why was something Albus couldn't explain. It was just something he felt. A snort warned him that it was a feeling shared. "And Grammer and Editing in Preparation for Essay Undertaking AKA Grammar one-oh-one, is with Professor Glenda Camille, double period, Gryffindor and Head of Gryffindor House."

"Double period… for grammar."

Tone alone indicated insult. For who was left a mystery. Foray into contempt done for now, the dead man stilled. Robes rustling as they settled in place, hands clasped behind his back, the dead stared at the edges of his prison for a while. Finally, a nod was given, a signal received, and to that prompt the Snakeling obliged.

And wished, really wished, he knew what this all was about.


	14. Chapter 14

An Unraveling

Double lessons part 2

 

First day he'd squeaked, fallen out of his chair. His voice, his stature, all had lead to the conclusion of Flitwick being a funny little guy. The condescension of his absent remark had earned him a glare, a sneer, and a scathing.

"And when he fell, did you help him up?"

Silence, a squirm, he hadn't, hadn't thought of it. Before those black eyes he winced. Feeling shame for a transgression realized too little too late.

So, once pressured he fell back to route. He fell back upon learning, what he'd learned; familiar words set to sooth the unsuitable. Descriptors, defenses, slipped past his lips without a care, _dwarf, short, odd, different,_ such was the head of Ravenclaw. He hadn't said them in scathing tones, he meant no insult after all. But the light, lilting syllables which were used to make light of the situation summoned a fierce glimmer amongst the black. Each had been marked as a transgression, a failure, and he'd been told under no uncertain terms that each was.

"I find… Muggle descriptors… at best lacking, insulting and inaccurate. I expect better from one of my Serpents than to rely upon such a crutch…"

That, by far, had been the kindest of the lecture, and lecture it had been. Hours long and louder than loud. It had resounded off the round walls to whip into his skull with the force of an echo all the better to inspire a headache. The living cringed, winced, and wished heart and soul he was elsewhere. The dead man, never mind he was bound by paint and walls and edges the living couldn't see, nodded, sure that the lesson had sunk in. Once sure, he'd indicated his Serpent was to move along.

So, Albus Severus had, words fumbling past stiff lips as he poked and prodded at his newest wound. As he spoke of mundane things, he wondered at the pain of a mark that didn't bleed, would never bleed him out, and had no concrete parameters save perception and guilt.

XXX

Gryffindor and Slytherin, Lion, Snake, Lion, Snake, boy, girl, boy, girl. Such were the seats chosen for them. Each had learned their place first lesson, and while most resented it all had complied after the first few detentions that had been passed out. Still, despite sanctions decorum and order there was the usual hustle and bustle children entailed. By the door as Serpents and Lions scrawled initials on the sign in sheet, fighting over the one pen in hisses and snarls. A swish and flick of one wand and a yelp went unnoticed as there was no one to notice.

Save the perpetrator and victim. Lion smirked at Snake, a promise was mouthed, and a grudge set.

Opportunity to vent such things would come as it would. It was set to last seven years (prolonged forced contact encouraged the time frame, that smirk all but set it in stone) a goodly length of time for anything to last.

Even for a century's long and living wizard.

"Come on Scorp." Breaking off the stare off with a nudge, Albus pushed his house mate back and away. They weren't sitting together for obvious reasons, but they could walk together ‘til plot and plan forced them apart. With a grunt Scorpious followed.

"You know," Singsonged the Lion. "All you have to do to get rid of vermin like scorpions is to pour rubbing alcohol on them. They sting themselves to death."

"Shut it, know-it-all."

Red hair, with a perchance to be bushy without some taming of the brush. Freckles surely, with a perchance for misshaped teeth. It was an odd melding, but the familiar (how else could it be?) sparked recognition.

Rosie.

("Weasly,-" he: dead yet not, a man riding upon the back of legend undeserved, and –bitter truth- so much more dared to asked. His once snappish tone dissolved into a horror, his once blank face more than alluded to the fact that the confirmation of his query was unspeakable and disgusting all at once. "-married _Granger_."

"I suppose... Dad… Dad doesn't talk about them much.")

He mouthed the name, then opened his mouth, scarping for nonexistent courage he stepped forward, pushing Scorp back. A scrape, a snarl, he was abandoned to his own stupidity with a grumbled "'luck".

Albus nearly sighed, really wanted to… Slytherins did a lot of that. Leaving people to their own fates because of perceived stupidity…

("A house virtue, self-preservation… Not one of the prettier facets, but a legitimate one. After all did you defend Mr. Malfoy? Intervene as he dug himself in deeper and deeper into my bad graces?"

The scrape of Malfoy's brush as he cleaned answered that better than any words. Still…

"I get it I get it.." A waved hand, rushed words, squeezed out by something like shame.

But it wasn't, not shame. Merely understanding and a dull confusion at the revelation. What others thought of as right wasn't always…

"Let fools be fools." The dead consoled the living.

"Did it save you, _sir_?" Sneered Malfoy in a hiss under his breathe.

A snarl and stinging hex served as answer enough.)

"You… I… it's been a while…"

And distance, damnable distance confirmed, she lit her gaze upon green and silver stitching, and like Jamie she looked away.

But not before regret. Not before he winced and she cringed.

"Children, children…" The squeaky herald to order called for order, and the board was abandoned. Those few who'd left it unsigned would warrant a detention (perhaps two, for multiple infractions), forgetting to notate what homework had been done and when it had been done was punished similarly.

In his drama between cousin and friend he'd forgotten to sign the bleeding sheet.

A flick and swish and the paper pealed itself off the wall. Even as the older (if shorter) man was struggling to ascend a chair and the attendant books piled upon its top. One sure upon his unsure seating he took the waiting paper in stubby hands.

(Thus started descriptors that set the dead to scowling, snarling…. A lecture was born, but that was for other things, for other days, not here, not now)

"Mr. Potter."

They were well beyond first day, after all.

A sigh, regret, understanding.

"I see you forgot something… To sign a specific sheet."

And if it weren't that specific sheet made by the bloody ministry he could have scrawled his paper as being done then and there. Certainly those beady (his descriptor of that caused a grumble, but nothing as violate as a fury) black eyes to narrow in pain. Damn surveillance and time tracking charms.

A sigh, then a quote far too familiar to wry to be verbatim. "Per policy, you understand, the fact that I have to take time to remind you of this before we begin our designated reading upon the mastery of charms for his day is time lost."

And time lost must be paid in full, upfront.

"Therefore I must unfortunately extend your present detention."

After all, to assign a different more merciful detention would have required more paperwork than it was. Merciful as it would have been had he bothered to tackle that paperwork. But Flitwick was a busy man running a head of house and all the pages it required. Back beady and all met green, a nod was offered.

An apology accepted.

"Two more weeks, per protocol, I think…"

Sorta… Actually as an afterthought definitely not. He let his grimace say that for him. Eyes crinkled, smiling gently, the little man shook his head. A mild rebuke considering the newest transgression. But Flitwick said nothing about disrespect, and making the detention last for three weeks, such as policy would have required.

"Now, per yesterday's reading who can tell me the purpose of the Wingardi-"

A hand shot up, bushy and red and freckles… figured. Albus huffed, set one hand under his chin and gloomed like his other namesake might a childhood ago. Some distance away a Serpent hissed, a stinging hex was released, and a yelp offered in answer's place. Know-it-all glowered at heir, animosity confirmed.

"Unfortunately Ms. Gr- Ms. Weasly "ouch", is not accurate description of the spell, anyone else?"

Never mind not being there, those black eyes positively danced with humor as justice as properly and promptly meted out. Lifting his head a little, almost smiling, the boy considered Flitwick with new eyes. Black met green, both twinkled (one more than the other, surely) and Severus' smile assured that the apology was more than accepted. A wink confirmed that the belatedness was forgiven, and all was well.


	15. History, the nature of

An Unraveling

Double Lessons: Part 3

History, the nature of

A Slytherin could go all his seven years only seeing the edges of the Gryffindor's, or better yet, the back of their heads. There was no incentive to face the front (the insults offered were quite the roar) and the sides were guarded by other lions. Phlantax, Muggles in Rome had once held it strategies apex. Look at Rome now. Pen in hand he waited a bit behind. Boot tapping out a restless ditty.

The paper was passed back and forth amongst the red and gold crush (hot potato hot potato) quick as it could. From formation's head to the back, falling from the tails' hands as a malicious afterthought.

It was an "accident" always was, and was ever consistent. Snapping up the pages before they were scattered by a parting kick, he first gathered, braced, than tapped them into place in his nervy hands. Once sorted, he signed, and passed them to the nearest body back. Serpent back actually. The scent of perfume and the poke form hard painted nails told him who'd taken what. Daisy Parkinson, girliest girl of all Slytherin was easy to find no matter what.

"Girliest girl _ever_." Tad'd hissed making al the boy's in Snakeling's dorm laugh. Despite being a night ago he smiled wearily as he took his seat. One dive into his back pack and he came up with paper. Blessedly blank, meticulously lined, with no tracking charm to the whole.

On each side, a girl lion sat, eyes riveted forward. They were Gryffindor's pride, studious, serious, and all that. Despite the fact there stick of a professor wasn't anything special or saying anything now they studied the kinda old mantis like she was special, watching her shuffle papers and all like it was interesting. They also went out of their way to ignore the Snake between them like he was scum.

Sev'd gotten their point long ago.

"A-hem."

Heads snapped up, all focused the fore with its perfectly aligned desk and drab teacher behind it.

"The history of the four is, more the stuff of fancy rather than fact. For example, when we look upon the so called history of Godric Gryffindor we get a slew of impossibilities. Knight, Templar, royalty, clergy man. The wizarding world has ever been separate for the Muggle, thus knighthood and all its attendant and following promotions of the Muggle slant are impossible. Thus, by applying logic to lore, traditions, one can see their fallacy. Once one can winnow fallacy from lore one is prepared for the real world."

Someone yawned, but she didn't notice. Behind Albus a note was slipped from one Lion to the other.

So much for studious, serious, and that "pride of" line.

He smiled.

In the spirit of the moment, in enthusiasm to enforce the real over fancy, someone up top had made a mistake. A big one. Page, lines and staples ("Eww.. it's Muggle!" Daisy's insulted whine had elected a few giggles form the class) were the median it was delivered. Considering the company the forum was a mistake, but that wasn't _the_ mistake.

Before him, was another type of ghost. He wouldn't have thought it one had there been the transparent type of ghost everywhere, but deprivation made the substitute more palatable. Running a digit over the front page, he took in its details and wondered at a variable most Wizard's wouldn't have recognized.

Thirteen font, new times roman font, printed from a _printer_ …

How the blazes did a wizard get to a computer to mass print a story for a class? Hogwart's wards would have fried any technology five minutes after it had entered the grounds. Or so one lanky Hufflepuff had confirmed when his Gaming System had frizzled in his pocket on the walk to the Great Hall. Tapping a finger against his lips he flipped through a few pages, the title " _Of Slytherin and Blindfolds, a Tale of Excised Hubris_ " was lost in the shadows of a fall as he skimmed through a few lines here and there.

No author was credited, no copyright either… Weird.

Bemused he read a few lines, wondering at the excessive margin the ominous double space. Though pedestrian, he was caught in a spell of a different type. It was a magic that did not need (foolish) wand waving under Flitwick's sad eyes. And though it was the simplest of spells, he smiled at the pages, flipped to the first and started reading.

"Ahem!"

At each side the Gryffindor's giggled into their hands. Checking a snarl he tried for a smile instead, and though it felt obvious and still Professor(ess) Gallonsworth nodded. Not forgiven just forgotten.

"Now then class, if we're all seated and ready to being please get your quills ready and a fresh sheet for notes…"

There was a shuffle as man pack dived, bringing up the requisite. Already ready Albus Severus played with his quill in nervy hands and wondered why he felt sick

"Now then if we're all ready?" Not being ready, warned the tone, would lead to detentions. "First we are going to talk about proper historical analysis. And the first step to that is detachment. Please, repeat after me " _History can only be comprehended and assimilated as an impersonal matter_."."

There were some stutters, a few hitches, and a questioning note from those well-read enough to know what was being parroted. But the line was said. You didn't question the professors. Just like how you didn't question history.

It wasn't just common sense, but a rule, policy out of the Hogwarts School guidelines post war edition.

"Again please, as one now…"

They repeated it "as one", a few more times. Once sure they were no longer stuttering Ms. Gallonsworth skipped right along. Well, she sorta skipped, she _was_ old after all. Scarping his quill tip against the inkwell's wall he wondered about the professoress. She was a bubbly thing in the worst possible way. The "I'll hug you all" fashion that screamed " _Hex me I'm a Hufflepuff_."

'Cept hexing Hufflepuffs was lower than low, so low that Silverbane'd taken points against one of the more vicious Snakes who'd been caught doing so.

"Ow!"

Ducking his head, to better hide a smile, Severus adjusted the score accordingly. Scorpius was now at a total of three, Weasly two. Actually, considering the latest hex was tossed across the room maybe that made it four? Oh well, note to self, learn stinging hexes, soon.

Oblivious, the Hufflepuff who wasn't, for she was in dull greys and drab Ministry symbols, carried on.

"Now, we start with fairytales, because despite not being historically accurate as a who- Yes, Miss?"

"Weasly, Rosie Granger Weasly , Ma'am."

They did this little intro to themselves every time a hand was raised. Each student, every time. The teacher took a question and a name, and it worked very well to dissuade the shy Snakes in Slytherin from raising a hand. Those whose names had a past also rarely rose a hand, well those whose names weren't that of heroes.

It took a stinging hex to make Scorp say anything most classes.

"Malfoy hexed me!"

"Mr. Malfoy?" Be born to a villain (though no one really knew that the Malfoy's had done) though and any accusation stuck. No matter how justified.

They'd two days before detention was over. Nights of not sleeping or sleeping on filth was down to two. Since sleeping on filth wasn't something Scorpius could do being delicate and all, he'd been sleeping less than Severus had. Black rings attested to that, the pasty which had replaced an elegant pallor also attested to it.

Another week, Scorp would be in the infirmary. He should have been there already.

With that last thought ringing in his mind, Albus Severus stood, stool scraping, cutting into the never ending "he did, she did" fest that was going nowhere fast.

"I… I did it."

Disbelief from one peer, relief and gratitude from the other. The teacher nodded, accepting confession without proof, her lips pressed into a thin line as she summoned a familiar piece of paper and perused the lines.

"You've already have detention from Professor Flitwick for this morning."

"Yes ma'am."

A certain painted someone was going to get sick of seeing his face. He just knew it. He didn't say it though. Didn't have to. Scorpius, having come to the same conclusion gifted his friend a sympathetic look and sat down with a relieved sigh.

"We'll talk after class."

With a groan Severus sat, set his chin on crossed arms playing with the pen forgotten.

"Now then, the first step in dividing fact from fancy is a slash. All of you have had quill management classes, so pick up those quills, dip them in the ink, and get to striking."

"But.. but…" No hand rose, but a protest did. Daisy, Slytherin's girliest girl ever, wouldn't and couldn't pick up her quill.

"Is there a problem, miss?"

"Mummy and Daddy…" Looking up, blue eyes wide, nearly tearing, stared up at the professor who couldn't, wouldn't, remember their names. "They said… stories about the founders... they're… they're sacred… special... I couldn't…"

"Child." Eyes soft, she stepped from behind her desk. Dusty hued robe scraping across stone, its edges lost as they matched the flooring perfectly. "Child… oh child…" A hand was offered, a head tipped back even as a calloused finger reached, whipped away the tears that were beginning to fall. "What your parents said, about… the tales being sacred… It's just an opinion."

Daisy winced, cringed back, but those fingers dig in, stilling the motion.

"And opinions, like those, are not facts."

Letting go, stepping back with a parting pat besides, the teacher smiled beatifically before murmuring.

"And that's not history child, and here we learn _history_. Stories are for children, after all. And here at Hogwarts, we're in the business of making you into adults suitable for the new wizarding world."

The professor spun about, about and away, drab hem chasing and obscuring her edges as she skipped back to her desk. Sure the professor's back was turned Severus caught Daisy's eye, then slipped his copy of the story into his backpack. Pulling out an essay from another class he laid it in the stories place.

Sandwiched between the front and the back and somewhat to the center he was going to gamble on the fact he was short and she (the teacher) was tall and… hopefully as stupid as she seemed.

With luck he'd keep what was hidden hidden, and if not… Well, what was another detention anyhow?


	16. Chapter 16

An Unraveling

Chapter 15

Double lessons: The usual

The floor was clean, a week and a half of on again off again scrubbings had guaranteed that one room was habitable once more. No dead things lingered, lounged in their post mortem indifference, nor did anything stink. There was, a faint lemony smell to the whole, but then Silverbane had warned that the cleaning potion he'd slipped into the boy's packs a few days ago smelled like that.

So, not being allergic, he'd endured, both cleaning and after effects of. He'd never eat a lemon again, much less a lemon drop. He'd sworn this before an amused "Salazar" second day in. He upheld oath and work effort to the end, and now he could savor the fact he could actually lounge about now that his detention was done.

Once his homework was finished, of course, those black eyes would permit nothing else if not the perfect.

Up and down up and down, he'd murmured that Flying Class had made him feel like a yo-yo. Always, forever ever, going up and down. The vigorous explanation was capped with a yawn and stretch.

"That's all you do in flying?"

"Well, yesterday was different." The painting almost brightened at the paltry offering of something different. He didn't smile, as if such a gloomy man could, but he showed his interest in subtle (Slytherin) ways. He… straightened, stiffened, and only the line dividing dimensions (second from third) was all that kept him from leaning forward just so. "We… ummm." What could you do, with under the glaring gaze of one dead? Nothing, save answer, and squirm a mite. "We did go in a circle, slowly, for being good."

Quiet, silence, a sigh. Eagerness gone, the dead deflated. Falling into the fold of his Ravenclaw study and letting the painted chair take his weight.

Severus imagined he could hear it creek at the older (deader) man's plop.

"Being good?" Resignation laced the tone.

"Not asking questions."

Long hands rose to better rub at the man's temples, their stained tips lost amongst the black lank locks.

Albus Severus opened his mouth, closed it, and wondered and worried over a question. Over many questions, actually.

_Did that painted chair feel as good as a real one?_

_What did it feel like to be a painting?_

_Did it hurt... to die?_

Though half closed in private misery, the man noticed. He noticed everything. Death hadn't done him any damage, to his sight or sense.

" _What_?"

Maybe to his manners, he never used kind words or kind tones. But it was an opening, and Severus took the offer.

"I.. umm…" An eyebrow rose, just one, and there was a world of meaning to that gesture. Shame no one had bothered to translate it to regular people speak. "Was… was it always like this… Hogwarts…?"

"No."

Daring another question, despite the chorus the voices (courtesy of Callow and Gallonsworth) that chanted " _Don't ask, never ask, as sanctioned, per protocol…_ " Albus' struggle was apparent to the educated. The sight of such a struggle on one so young… the painted man's face furrowed with a new set of scowl lines.

"What was it like?" Protocol broken, a whisper offered.

Never had there ever been such a lukewarm act of defiance. Tapping one long digit against his lips painting considered living, eyes thinned.

"I assume you mean Hogwarts, back then? Back before the war?"

A nod was offered, to that "Salazar" smirked.

"Now now… What's the first rule Snakeling?"

A rush of warmth filled him, at the casual endearment. An endearment many would see as an insult. He'd heard it before, sing songed, sneered, but from those lips and among the Den it wasn't an insult.

Repetition of a simpler kind, less pained than protocol because this wasn't. It was right. "Something for something, but I got you stuff before, the Prophet and all that."

He'd taken over Silverbane's place, sneaking in papers, hiding them amongst the rats nest of his backpack. Salazar wasn't oblivious to his efforts. He'd noticed the wrinkles and creases that had appeared over his papers and hadn't asked why. He'd merely ordered that the newspapers be treated with more respect.

"You did. My thanks."

Thus thanks were shown their true merit and worth. Finding that a bitter draw Severus groaned, realization hitting him that it wasn't fair, but he knew by now that life wasn't always. The arguments on his side were there, he had done something after all. But the glare that was sent his way his way warned him that that _something_ was too little, too late, and far too small to be worthy of the secrets of before the war.

"There _is_ the library you know." Came the off hand, insulting, suggestion.

Albus shook his head, biting his lip, holding back all those "it's not fair" feelings he had. What he really wanted was to pull a tantrum. To stomp his foot, howl, hop up and down. But that was something Jamie did, something Lily did.

He was better than that, tried to be, had to be.

So he didn't.

"No, _what_?" The man had a natural inclination to hold a cutting inflection. Scorn, irritation, those were the man's regular tones. Death hadn't dulled them in the slightest. " _Articulate_ boy."

"I… the library's different and all the before war stuff's either Ministry sanctioned or... well… worthless."

Quiet, silence, then a snort.

"Mr. Potter. I expected more cunning, truly I did." The dead stood, looked down upon the living. "If you hadn't noticed by now all the "Sanctioned by Ministry" materials, be them books, pens, or uniforms, are at best subpar and at worst Hexed, Traced, or pathetic. You're telling me nothing remains? Nothing of the library from before the war exists?"

Head down, the Snakeling slid one foot behind the other, scrapped his booted toes across the stone.

"Nothing!'" The dead barked, incredulous fury made the man's voice both rise and crackle. Then, one breath, another, and the tones became both silky and dark. "Mr. Potter, lying to one such as I, is not the wisest thing you've ever d-"

Boots clicked against stone, as someone descended. It was a really pedestrian mytery really, resolved when the speaker spoke, confirmed when he made it 'round the bend. "Really, sir, he's not. A liar or lying." Snakeling turned to his savoir and smiled. Though sick (still, ever, always, the last had been confessed with a sigh), Silverbane had impeccable timing. "Sev, finished up here?"

Even bent double Severus has to raise his head and let the older Serpent see his eyebrow. It was a near perfect match to the eyebrow that the portrait raised. Faced with two expressions of dry amusement, mixed with disbelief, and a touch of disdain from the older (disbelief from the younger), the Serpent smiled.

"Yes I know up from down. Very funny you two…"

Ignoring that unspoken prompt, to turn around and see Salazar with an expression, Snakeling pulled open his backpack. Scraping up book and notes, he shoved the lot in. Putting his pen in its place, and the inkwell too, Severus pulled up straps and clicked them closed. A scramble later he stood, a grunt and he'd swung the whole over his back sagging under the weight of books.

"There is a feather light charm you know." Sneered the dead to the departing.

To that the Snakeling shrugged. More than ready to be on his way. The painting wasn't as fun with Malfoy to bait him along.

"Bad detention?" Silverbane drawled.

"Hmm… quiet, glared at, the usual."

The usual. Such was flying up and down, such was charms with its never ending reading. Such was the atrocity called grammar and history where old sacred things were desecrated with cross outs and analysis that stripped wonder form legend and left gibberish in its wake. This was the "usual". Where nothing happened, nothing of note. Where notes were taken and the mundane idolized, and the refrain of protocol was recited like worshipful words and thus elevated beyond its proper moniker, _noise_.

"Wait."

Boots clicked, a painting parallel, a hall, the sound came from there. It was the first piece, that first place where they'd seen him. Where an heir and a hero's shame had saved him. Framed by a hall never ending, going into a depth that wasn't, Salazar stood in his original painting. Black robes whipping before him at his sudden stop, he raked a hand through his lank locks.

"You have something, something I want for something you need."

Albus Severus looked up, slow, unsure, untrusting. Ever and always a Slytherin, though he'd never know it, he fit the stereotype perfectly. Power and pride had come later, much later, when hubris become popular to hide the innate vulnerabilities of a house whose trademark was self-preservation.

Pride had overshadowed all, costing more than it was worth, but when that's all seemed left...

"Will you accept, as well as my... apologies?"

Silverbane turned to gawp at that offering, looking at those pallid features, staring at the lines of a frame. Seeking out lies, even as his whole body radiating surprise. Even, then, as the elder boy stood paralyzed in shock, he knew his Snakeling was turned away. Eyes looking up, mind focused on out, the boy was more than gone.

"Mr. Albus Severus Potter." Those eyes canted back, one eye anyway, to look at him from the corner. Green, as good as gold, damnably familiar. "If I give you information on Hogwarts, on the Wizarding world as it was, will you consent to give me what I seek, books, tales, snippets of how it is now. Not just from you, but all the first year Snakelings."

"I.. I can't…" Looking ahead, no longer looking back, Albus shivered. "I can't promise, not for them. But… why 'dya need them?"

"Because one view, one window, isn't enough. A man can't see the world with one window, no matter its transparency, it's not enough."

One moment, two, then…

"You're sorry?"

"For calling you a liar? Yes."

"I can't promise…" Albus Severus sighed. "So I can't say yes."

"No, but you can do something for me, something for something." Black eyes lifted, considered the world beyond those green. "Prefect Silverbane, I want a house meeting, here, all members, Snakeling to Viper who you can trust, as soon as possible."

A nod, silent though, the older boy remained quiet, one hand sliding over his Snakeling's shoulders.

"As for you, Mr. Potter, when is this foolery of a detention over anyway?"

A sigh, some finger ticking… "Umm I think... I _think_ it's got another week. I.. umm forgot to sign the sheet again."

" _Again_." Silverbane groaned, a pinch and the younger boy hopped. "Sev the way you're going you'll forget where the common room is."

"Well it's not my fault the Weasely witch hexed the paper to run off when you wrote on it…"

"Snakeling." Turning about the boy, so that he was facing sideways, Silverbane tried a glower. It looked more like a grimace, but he tried. Shakes and sick aside, he tried. "When you have a problem like that, with the Lions or Puffs or whoever, you _come_ to one of us. To an older Snake or Viper! Merlin's b-" A soft cough from behind and beyond caused the older boy to wince. "Pants… right… pants…" Hesitancy fell and sternness steeled the older boy's tone. "We've been over this!"

"Well it's just... I... It's stupid!"

Hands nipping into his shoulder, Albus Severus was forced to look up into living eyes, watery eyes. But not weak. Though there were grimaces instead of glares and palsy to the hands, there wasn't weakness. Never that, not in a Snake.

"Are you stupid?" Silvberbane growled.

"I…" Looking above the older boy, he stared up into the dead. Between angry living and apathetic dead he couldn't decide which was worse to consider. So he considered none, closed his eyes a bit and wished both would go away a lot.

"Well, you aren't." The Serpent snapped. "No Snakeling's ever been dumb, the hat sorts them elsewhere." A shake, more a nudge really. "Now open your eyes and say it." Silverbane growled.

"I'm…" looking above, beyond Silverbane, he met Salazar's eyes.

To find the man nodding, then once sure the boy's attention was caught, mouthed the words Severus should have said. "I... I'm not stupid, no one's fools. Fools are sorted elsewhere."

"Good."

The dead nodded, an absent benediction.

"The rest, Snakeling."

"Umm I…" He begged, with his eyes, and another nod told him, warned him, his request would be heeded. But for later, later surely there would be something demanded. Something for something, after all. "My… My problems, are Slytherin's problems. We... we can't... t… trust anyone, can't trust the Puff's they're without spine, can't trust the Raven's they're all wisdom and no sense, and Lion's-

(Jamie, Rosie, all of them)

-don't trust us."

"So, why were you holding back on having a problem?"

Black eyes flicked to Silverbane, those thin lips were sealed, no help was coming on its way this time. Oh goodie.

"I.. I just thought… she'd… stop…"

"She will, now." Silverbane ground out, a parting smack upside the head, light, it scarcely ruffled his hair. Still Severus remembered to flinch and carry on.

So Silverbane wouldn't know, how weak he really was. It was something all the Snakes did, from Firstie to Seventh year, to spare the Prefect's what little pride he had left, from shredding.

"If," came the acerbic drawl from on high. "You two Snakes are _quite_ done, I've things to do. History books to read."

Knowing the wry stab for what it was Severus popped his backpack off and went to digging. One history book later (jammed with tales he'd salvaged here and there, all unlined)and he held it out in offering before he remembered… They stood, awkward like that. Living making an offering to the two dimensional dead, the peculiarities of mass stilling the exchanged before sense could.

"Umm I could take it down Professor, to the main room." Silverbane offered, hand closing over the book to better hide the faux pax.

_Where your paintings are, all the comfortable ones anyway._

To that offer Salazar scoffed. "Leave it, where it is, on the floor mind, and get out. I've little to fear from mice and the like nipping at the pages."

Departing the departed, the living wended up, strolling up the spiral staircase to out.

Distant, but not too far gone, Salazar's voice carried from the closest paining that was many turns away.

"And teach that brat the feather light charm, before tomorrow night! He'll kill himself under all the foolery they call school books…."

A door opened, clicked shut, both were gone, a lukewarm offering left at the feet of a man without. Now that the place was birecft of the living the dark came, the castle dimming light and leaving gloom in it's wake. Alone, amongst the black, the man called Salazar who wan't glowered at nothing in particular.

Then, finally…

"Lumos."

Light emanated from a hand that wasn't.

Magic was born from a soul that wasn't.

A idly waved hand and the book flipped open, raised causing a rain of notes and papers to slide out from the pages for lack of a supporting touch. Well no one had promised miracles, and magic didn't tend to everything.

Sadly.

 


End file.
